


Our Venn Diagrams

by imperfectkreis



Series: Tate [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Children, Discussion of Abortion, Gender Roles, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Intercrural Sex, M/M, No Explicit Het, Prosthesis, Regret, Rough Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Philadelphia: 2289. The Sole Survivor destroying both the Prydwen and the Institute has left a power vacuum on the Eastern Seaboard. Apparently vault kids are still the best option for trying to set the Wasteland right.





	1. Take Ten Years Off and Tell Me How You Feel in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. This story has been designed in such a way that hopefully it sort of stands on its own, though at this point in the game, I'm not sure how accurate that statement is. 
> 
> If you're familiar with Tate's storyline up until this point, most everything should be clear. There are some references to [Your Ghost Will Ask My Ghost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7249717) as well. Which is where the Tate storyline intersects with the events of FO4. There is also a time skip between the end of that fic and the start of this one, but everything you need to know is covered over the course of this story.

Butch wears the scratchy red bandana around his nose and mouth to keep dust from flying up into his nostrils. The pack brahmins kick up so much random shit as they lumber forward, especially considering how fucking slow they are. 

He’s not even really sure where the dust is coming from, because while the asphalt is often cracked, the dirt patches along the route from Boston to Philadelphia are hard-packed from years of use. 

And the bandana does fuck all for the smell. The stench honestly makes Butch wanna gag when he thinks about it for too long. Better to just zone out while his feet march ahead. 

It’s early in the day, and the morning light catches in the unidentifiable debris particles as they swirl around his head. 

The caravan driver says it’s another eight hours on to Kinwood, if the weather holds. Their trip down from Goodneighbor has been plagued with delays. Radstorms, yao guai, deathclaws, the usual Wasteland perils. Butch thought that traveling with the caravan would be safer, yah know, moving in a group. Less fighting they'd have to do by themselves. But now he thinks they would have made better time on their own, being able to run and hide and not worry about the damn cows.

Tate keeps his mouth covered as well, and that does more to shut him up than anything else ever has. Feels like the last couple of days, he’s said all of ten words to Butch, less than that to the junk trader, who told them their name before they left the Commonwealth, but Butch has already forgotten it and now it’s weird to ask again. 

They should have taken the fucking Vertibird. Of course, they woke up one morning to find it missing from where they parked it, just outside the Castle. Only person who could have taken it is Jackson, so, whatever. She can fucking have it. Consider it an inheritance, or some shit. Besides, the Bird probably draws too much attention that Butch and Tate don’t fucking need. 

If only the brahmin didn’t have to stop every two hours to graze and drink and generally dick around. For fuck’s sake. 

They’re supposed to meet Amata and Freddie and the kids in Kinwood. They’ve got friends there, or something. Butch doesn’t know. Amata was eager to get back and those synths had done a number on Butch’s intestines during the raid on the Institute. Butch was in a ‘medically induced coma’ or some shit for weeks, then he hadn’t been fit to travel.

Butch thinks that Amata just couldn’t stand looking at him anymore. 

Then again, she’s had to look at him for the last ten years, even though he hasn’t been around. So maybe that’s why she’s sick of him and not of Tate. Though Tate is totally fucking at fault too.

The weather is cold and they’re both bundled up in layers, sweaters and coats and shit. They’ve been lucky not to have snow. Too many years on the warm West Coast has made them soft for Winter.

“What do you think Kinwood is gonna be like?” Butch asks, just to try and make Tate say something.

Tate’s unreadable with his mouth all covered up. His eyes don’t say anything as he turns his head to look at Butch. “Don’t tell me you think there’ll be something surprising and new?” his voice drips with contempt. 

“Nah,” Butch tries to play it off. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong. 

“We’re too old for this shit.” Tate falls silent again.

\--

It’s true, Kinwood is nothing special. 

Carved out of the remains of a pre-War strip mall, the main drag of four interconnected storefronts have been reinforced with metal sheeting and lumber steaks. The old parking lot is fenced in, leaving enough free space that the housing units, mostly scavenged mobile homes stacked on top of each other, have doors that open out into a well maintained central plaza. The whole complex is criss-crossed with adjustable aluminum ladders to get around. The kind scaved straight outta hardware stores. Some of them are latched in place with zip-ties, but others can be moved from house to house, depending on need.

There are more homes, boxy, new constructs of wood and metal beams, that have been added on top of the original strip of shops too. There’s a proper wooden staircase leading up to those, weathered with age, but it looks sturdy enough.

All and all, the footprint of the settlement isn’t terribly large, but they’re densely packed in, without feeling like they’re suffocating. That's an advantage of building up instead of out.

Tate thanks the caravan merchant, calling them “Kit,” before they part ways. 

Amata didn't tell Tate anything more specific than “Kinwood” before she bolted with Freddie and the kids. She didn't tell Butch nothing because he was basically dead when she bailed. So now Butch ain't got a fucking clue. But he supposes that's sort of Tate’s job anyway, figuring out the plan. Even if Tate looks like he's about to punch whoever might smile at him first in the fucking throat, he's still a better conversationalist than Butch on his best day. Tate can fake it. Butch never could.

“I'm tired,” Tate clips. “We can ask about Amata at the bar, or whatever.”

Whatever crawled up Tate’s ass better crawl back out before Butch has to go in there after it. 

Butch lights his cigarette to keep his damn hands to himself, stalking after Tate. They head towards the bar, “Cydyfed.” Butch has no fucking idea what that's even supposed to sound like, much less mean.

Tate wrenches the heavy steel door open, not bothering to hold it for Butch. But Butch is quick enough to reach up over Tate’s head and grab the edge before it slams shut in his face.

This is about to get real ugly, real quick. Although not that quick because Butch feels like he's been putting up with this shit for weeks, since he woke up. So really, he’s got the patience of a fucking saint.

The bartender is barely more than a girl, her dark hair in two long braids that fall over her shoulders and her eyes this weird sort of blue-gray. Butch doesn't like looking at her.

She smiles real bright and asks what she can get for them? Tate orders two beers and asks about food. She honest to fuck produces a laminated menu like they haven't seen since leaving the NCR.

Most everything is covered up with white stickers and some other crap written on top of the original dishes with blue ballpoint pen. Something that looks like it might have been a beef burger is now prepared with salisbury steak. French fries are now tato shards. But hey, at least they appear to have food that’s not from a can. Not that Butch minds the tinned stuff all that much, but it’s been a long trip. Longer than it shoulda been. 

Tate orders the salisbury burger and asks if they have Fancy Lads. Which is weird and not at all what he would normally ask for but whatever. Butch says he’ll take the same and he wants another beer and not the cakes, thanks. Next to him, Tate counts out the caps for everything, sliding them across the counter.

They don’t talk while they wait for the food, which just makes Butch fume more. He looks around the bar, trying to distract himself, think about anything else but Tate.

The bar is on its way to thinning out, rather than getting more crowded. Which, whatever, it’s late, but he’s not used to bars winding down until past midnight and it’s only about nine. 

When their food comes, Tate says they should move to a table. Butch doesn’t fight him, but he thinks about it. Seeing what would happen if he just smashes his fist into the side of Tate’s head. They can not-talk just as well at the bar.

“You didn’t ask about Amata,” Butch points out, once they’re at the table.

“Tomorrow,” Tate promises.

Butch scoffs, stretching his legs out under the table. But Tate is already slouching too and they knock into each other clumsily. “Like you ain’t want to see her.”

Tate looks up from his plate, “Of course I do. It’s just…”

“You feel like shit,” Butch finishes, poking at his burger. Nice to know some things don’t change.

“Don’t you?”

Butch sighs, admitting, “Yeah.”

They finish eating. The food is good, well, better than what they ate on the road. And they didn’t have to cook it themselves, which always makes the experience of eating about ten times better. 

Tate doesn’t touch the snack cakes, shoving them into his pack and asking Butch to ask about a room. 

“Why don’t you?”

Tate only glares, shoving caps into Butch’s hand.

Butch resigns himself to getting the room. In a moment of pettiness, he thinks about insisting on two separate beds, just to make a fucking point. But he doesn’t want to give Tate another fucking excuse not to talk, or fight it out, or whatever. Just fucking SOMETHING. So he asks after a room. 

He still doesn’t like looking at the barkeep, though her eyes are lovely and dull. “Yes, we have two rooms,” she smiles, wiping her wet hands on a dishrag.

“Just one, if the bed is big enough,” Tate didn’t give him enough caps to book both. And fuck, would that be a signal? Booking them separate rooms? He might as well just deck Tate in the middle of the bar.

She reaches under the counter to pull the key, telling Butch the room is just around the corner. He considers asking about Amata himself, but for all he knows, Tate has some sort of grand scheme.

By the time Butch re-counts the caps for the room, Tate is already standing at the threshold of the narrow hall that leads down to the rentals. Butch holds out the key for Tate to take, their fingers brushing against each other as the key changes hands.

The room itself is sort of nice, for what it is. A full mattress on top of a boxspring, a lamp in one corner, because the overhead one doesn’t work. And a big rug so their feet aren’t sliding against the concrete floor. 

Tate throws his pack onto a chair and starts stripping out of his clothes, heading for the tiny bathroom, just a toilet and a sink.

Somehow, the gentle click of the bathroom door as Tate slides inside is the thing that does it. The end of Butch’s patience. 

“WHAT THE FUCK, NOSEBLEED.” He throws his bag at the shut door, crashing against the wood and sliding to the floor. Something inside his bag shatters. The Buffout they were gonna trade? Maybe. 

Butch is steaming, breathing heavy, his ears feeling hot even though the room is colder than entirely comfortable. 

He’s stalking towards the bathroom, ready to tear the door off its hinges, when it swings open again, nearly catching him in the face. But he feels it coming and steps out of the way in time. There's just enough of a gap that Tate comes barreling back out, shirtless and his cheeks peachy-pink. “What the fuck, yourself?” he growls, shoving at Butch’s chest, knocking him back. Butch catches himself before he hits the opposite wall.

They should be mature about this. They should talk. They ain’t kids anymore. Right? They got good and stopped beating on each other awhile ago. Besides, Tate’ll rip him to shreds. Knows that now, knew that since they were fifteen, but especially now because Butch is watching the way the metal rods in Tate’s arm slide as he balls his hand into a fist. 

So Butch shouts instead of tackling Tate to the ground, because once he got Tate there, pressed against the concrete, those metal fingers would just claw through his face. Can't exactly have a screaming match in a new town at ten-thirty at night either, but Butch has gotta weigh his options.

“You've been fucked since we left Goodneighbor!”

Tate laughs, “Been fucked a lot longer than that,” at least some of the anger has come out of his voice.

“You know what I'm talking about, Tate.” They ain't as messed as they used to be. 

“Sure? I do, but what, you want me to be all sunshine and fucking flowers on cue? Want me to make pretty and kind just to soothe your nerves, Butch?”

Butch drops his shoulders, because nah, he isn't expecting Tate to pretend or anything. “Maybe talk to me about what's wrong?”

“And when did we ever do that?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake. It's like you wanna get punched in the face.”

Tate shrugs his shoulders. “Don't want anything right now.”

Whatever well of anger burst in Butch earlier is already starting to dry up. He's exhausted, Tate is exhausted, his under eyes puffy and raw. 

“Don't want me either?” Butch asks.

Tate frowns, “You know how I am, sometimes.”

Like a fucking light switch, easy to turn on. But sometimes, a switch that ain't hooked into anything. “Yeah, this just seems...worse.”

Tate doesn't bother responding to that, turning back to the sink to finish washing up. Butch doesn't disturb him this time, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots, tossing them into one corner of the room and making too much racket. He strips off his shirt, throwing that aside as well, waiting for Tate to finish.

They switch places, Butch heading to the bathroom to wash his face, wipe under his arms and over his neck. Tomorrow, maybe, they can find a place with proper showers. He rinses his mouth with water before heading back to bed.

Tate is already under the covers, pulled up over his face. His metal arm is on the floor next to the bed. 

Butch slides in next to him, but leaves space between them. It's cold. He wants to hold Tate like everything is normal, but he's made a bunch of concessions already, Tate’s gotta give an inch too.

Butch is half asleep by the time Tate shifts. The lights have been off for awhile and maybe it's safer, or something. Tate rolls closer, until he's pressed against Butch’s chest. Resigned to this, Butch throws his arm over Tate’s waist, pulling him so they're flush. Tate’s dark hair smells like sweat and soot, ashy and familiar. He kisses the top of Tate’s head, expecting to get a complaint if Tate is actually still awake.

“I'm scared, that I'll hurt her again.”

“Me too,” Butch admits.

“Do you think we did the right thing?”

“...I was the one,” Butch searches for what he wants to say. In the inky darkness, it might be easier to talk, but they'll still remember in the morning. “I was the one who asked you to make her stay in the Vault...I was the one…”

“If I had stayed in the vault, if I didn't run,” Tate's right hand wraps around Butch’s arm, nails biting into his flesh. “None of this would have happened.”

“The guards would have killed you.” It's simple. It's true. “We all fucked up,” he keeps his voice low, “but we all lived.”

“Yeah,” Tate concedes, “Yeah.”

At least the thaw has started.

\--

Tate isn't there when Butch wakes up. There's a moment of blind panic, sure. That maybe today is when it all ends. Butch has had a fuckton of moments like this, though, over the last however many years. A lot of years. Even when they were stuck in the Vault, there was this weird sensation that Tate was running through his fingers like sand, clinging to his skin in patches, but ultimately transitory. And this was before either of them had touched the sea.

Butch flops onto his back, stretching out, letting his feet dangle off the end of the mattress so he can throw his arms over his head and not hit the wall behind him. He checks his Pipboy: nine in the morning. Tate probably just got hungry and didn't want to wake him.

The door clicks open, Tate ducking back inside, a mug in his hand. “I brought you coffee.”

“Thanks,” Butch says, dark, grumbly sleep still in his voice. He sits up, his back against the wall behind him. He's about to get out of bed, but Tate pushes the mug into his hands.

“I asked about Amata and Freddie. Looks like they headed out on the sixth, told the bar owner to keep a look out for us. They said they should be back by the twelfth.” It's the tenth now. 

Butch rubs his eyes with one hand, keeping his coffee in the other. “They took the kids?”

“I guess they take them everywhere?”

Butch can only grunt in reply. He doesn't actually want to talk about it.

“We’ve got nothing to do but wait, I guess.” Tate grabs Butch’s pack off the ground. Butch hadn't even bothered with it after he chucked it at the door. 

Setting it on top of his own bag on the lone chair in the room, Tate starts pulling out the Buffout doses, depositing them into a little plastic container. He probably plans on selling them still. Ain't like the bottle adds to the value or anything.

Butch drinks his coffee, weak and granular, while Tate sorts through chems and glass shards. The glass goes into another container. Buffout bottles are thick, but Butch really threw the bag with as much force as he could manage. With his left hand, Tate doesn't even really need to worry about getting cut. 

“Are you done?” Tate asks. “With the coffee?”

“Oh,” Butch breaks his daze, “Yeah.”

Tate steps over, taking the cup from Butch’s hands and depositing it on the floor. He throws his leg over Butch’s hips, straddling him on the bed, letting his weight settle on Butch’s groin.

“Thought you were in a mood,” Butch says, skimming his fingers under the hem of Tate’s clean tee. Not like they have anywhere else to be right now. They're stranded until Amata gets back.

Tate lifts his arms over his head, encouraging Butch to pull the shirt up and over his head. His hair gets caught in the static, electricity crinkling through the air. “Still am, don't mean I don't want you, though.” Tate reaches for his shoulder, uncoupling his arm from the joint. There are a couple of clicks before it comes loose. Butch grabs it and sets it on the floor. The metal taps against the ceramic mug. At least they didn't break it. 

Tate starts with Butch’s lips, licking over them in a way that will always be sort of gross. But Butch likes it. Then biting, tugging at the fleshiness of Butch’s lower lip before finally, finally kissing Butch properly. Butch has gotta tilt his head up, because on his lap like this, Tate is a little bit taller, kissing down and dragging his nails over Butch’s bare chest, down to the elastic of his boxers.

Butch fiddles with Tate’s belt, getting the fly to his jeans open before they've both gotta move to get their pants off. He isn't entirely sure how far they're going with this, because while he's pretty hard, Tate’s not, even if his face is flushed and his breathing heavy.

Tate doesn't want to get the fuck off his lap, so Butch just shoves down his jeans as boxers as far as he can manage, which isn't much, just pulling out Tate’s cock and exposing half of his ass. Tate’s got less to worry about, just sticking his hand into Butch’s boxers and starting the long, slow drag of his hand.

“You sure want me,” Tate breathes next to Butch’s ear, before biting messily at the lobe. He's not trying to be like, coy or sexy or whatever, he's trying to devour Butch, piece by piece, before something else can get him.

“Always,” Butch promises.

There's no bed frame to worry about, so Butch shifts his weight, knocking Tate over backwards, even if it runs the risk of him yanking Butch’s dick off. Luckily, Tate has the sense to let go before he bends back towards the mattress. Butch scrambles to get on top before Tate can respond. Should've known he was too late before he started, because Tate grips his shoulder as Butch tries to get on top of him, forcing just enough leverage that instead of hovering over Tate, Butch ends up pitching towards the floor.

He's coordinated enough to catch himself before his head smashes into the concrete, but he takes the hit on his shoulder. Could've been worse. Butch manages to roll to one side before Tate, who has somehow managed to lose his jeans, but not his boxers, pounces down from the bed.

Tate lands on his hip first, then his shoulder, absorbing the impact. Taking the second chance, Butch actually gets Tate on his back this time, pinning his shoulder down with one hand and curling one knee to press against Tate’s hip. “Stay.” He doesn't actually expect it to work. But at least Tate’s hard now, and smiling.

“Make me?”

And Butch realizes that he's in a fucking stupid position because he's resting his weight on Tate and Tate can literally take him single-handedly. There's no way he comes out of this a winner. Except Tate’s body goes a little bit slack under his. Tate lifts his head up off the ground, but can't get his shoulders up without dislodging Butch. Doesn't try to get free. Just kisses him and pulls away.

“Make me.”

Butch shoves down his own boxers first, letting his cock bounce out, curving back towards his stomach. Tate stays pliant while Butch goes into his boxers, pulling out his cock and wrapping his hand around both of them best he can manage. 

Rearranging his legs so his weight is on the floor, instead of Tate’s pelvis, he starts stroking them together. It's too dry and not fast enough. But it's wicked hot to feel Tate’s skin against his for the first time in fucking forever. Butch starts loosening his grip but grinding down harder into Tate’s groin, with part of him screaming, “INSIDE, INSIDE,” but he also doesn't want to be anywhere but here.

Butch doesn't realize he's sobbing until he feels Tate’s hand at the back of his head, fingers splayed through the hair at his nape. Reminds him enough to wrap them together again is his palm. When he feels the gentle roll of Tate’s hips up, trying to chase him as much as he's been chasing Tate through their fear and frustration, he gets close, really fucking close. He can feel it, fizzling at the small of his back, across his thighs, his knees that are starting to hurt from being on the hard floor for so long.

Butch doesn't even care that he comes first, though Tate might give him shit about it later. He rests his forehead against Tate’s shoulder, rewrapping his hand just around Tate’s cock because he's too over sensitive now. Slick and sticky with his cum, he works Tate until he's groaning low, chanting something about how Butch should never worry. Not really.

They'd be lost without each other.

Well, they're lost like this too. But at least they're together.


	2. The Confession Comes Later Down the Assembly Line

“Some things never change,” Tate spits into the dirt. They'd hung around too long in Kinwood and some of the townies got to thinking that it looked like he and Butch “knew how to handle themselves,” so now they're about a mile and a half outside of the settlement, armed best they could manage and looking for this damn raider who is selling candy-flavored mentats to kids or something.

Tate figures they're not going to have to fight the guy, maybe just scare him a little, convince him to pack up and move to greener pastures...something. Poor fuck is probably just trying to make a living on what he's got.

“Yeah, here we are crawling through a shithole, looking for some fuckface, for ass-all caps.” Butch sneers. Kicker is that they don't need the caps, though the nice young man who called himself the mayor’s assistant promised them two-hundred to get the job done. That's a drop in the fucking ocean. “At least it's gotten us out of town.”

Tate agrees. He's really not used to being around so many strange people. So being out here, just him and Butch and a Wasteland fuckup they're tailing is kind of comforting.

They've followed the guy’s trail to a thicket of dead trees, wound through with branches jointed together with hardened mud. Someone built this maze of wood, but it's not entirely clear why, or what it's even supposed to accomplish, other than get in Tate’s fucking way.

The crisscross of branches makes it impossible to tell if they've hit a dead end until they're right on top of it, having to double back to find another opening in the path. If they had a ripper or something, they could cut through it, but all Tate’s got is a power fist and Butch’s plasma pistol isn't going to do much good either.

“I can hear him,” Butch says, clawing at the branches, trying to tug them down so they don't have to turn around again. “I can hear that fucker, hey!” He calls deeper into the forest. 

It's not like Tate isn't frustrated too. And he likes how Butch thinks. “Back up, back up!” Tate shouts.

Butch takes a step to the side and Tate actually gets a glimpse of the guy through the branches, running deeper into the maze with ease. Knows it top to bottom. They’ll never catch him if they don't cut through the middle.

Tate turns so he leads with his left side. There aren't any nerve endings in his prosthetic, so that's the side he should use to absorb the impact. It'll still hurt his shoulder, but it won't be too bad.

Butch seems to get the fucking idea about what's gonna happen and gets the fuck out of Tate’s way. The branches behind him means that Tate doesn't have a whole lot of room to get a running start, but it’ll do. He turns his head, trying to make sure that won't be the first point of impact, and sprints.

Crashing through the first barrier, some of the branches break at initial impact. In a few places, the mud bindings snap too. Tate hits the wall with enough momentum that he pulls the rest down with him as he crashes to the ground.

Butch takes off running next, copying Tate’s body position as he sprints towards the next layer. Tate snickers, getting up from the ground. He should warn Butch it's gonna hurt like hell. You know, because Butch’s arm is actually flesh and bone and not a Boneyard contraption half a decade old. But whatever, Butch can knock himself out.

“FUCK!” Butch screams on impact, writhing on the floor and clutching his arm in pain. At least they're through another layer. Tate jogs over to help Butch up off the floor. Hopefully he hasn't actually damaged himself.

“We gotta keep moving,” Tate says/ They get another look at the guy, who has actually stopped to turn and look at them. His eyes are wide with a kind of impressed fear. Like, yeah, Tate and Butch are actually fucked up enough to keep doing this so they can grab his drug-dealing ass.

Tate takes down the last barrier between them and the raider. Once Butch realizes it leads to an open forest floor, he doesn't wait for Tate to peel himself up off the ground, just bolting after their chem dealer.

It only takes Tate a fraction longer to get up off the floor and in pursuit. Butch’s legs might be longer, but that doesn't keep Tate from catching up, then passing Butch to close in on the dealer.

The fucker looks sort of young, maybe twenty, with bright pink hair and a stocky frame. He looks over his shoulder at Tate, his green eyes wide. He knows he's fucked. Knowing the maze gave him an advantage, but now that Butch and Tate are through, they're both faster than this guy.

Tate dives at his legs, wrapping his arms around the dealer’s knees and dragging him to the ground. He lands face first in the dirt, whimpering and trying to claw away. Tate scrambles on top of him, pinning the dealer’s arms to his side using his legs and resting his full weight on his back.

The guy is breathing heavy, crying not to kill him. He’ll do whatever. Really! He just doesn't want to die.

Butch stands behind them, “Need help?”

“Yeah,” Tate responds, get him up off the ground and hold him while we have this conversation. The dealer is still trembling beneath Tate.

Tate gets up and the dealer tries to slip away, but as he's pushing up off the floor, Butch wraps his arms around his waist and hoists him up. While he's not a small guy, probably an inch taller than Tate and really broad, he's not strong enough to fight off Butch. Besides, he can't be dumb enough to think they won't just grab him again.

He’s sniffling, snot coming from his nose and tears down his cheeks. He's really fucking scared, which makes Tate wonder how the fuck a guy like this ended up a raider anyway. His jacket is full of holes and his pants are too tight and he just looks a fucking mess.

“Okay, okay, look at me,” Tate snaps his fingers to get the dealer to look up. He keeps closing his eyes though. His lashes are thin, but dark. “LOOK AT ME!” Tate has got to get him to stop blabbering.

The dealer snaps to attention, opening his eyes. “Okay,” he drags a ragged breath. “Okay.”

“We are not here to kill you,” Tate soothes. He can see the guy relax a little in Butch’s grip. “But we could be,” Tate flashes his teeth.

The dealer nods frantically, “I'll be good.”

“So, let's have a conversation. I'm Tate, this is Butch.”

“Hi,” Butch replies, keeping the raider locked in place against his chest..

“And you are?” 

“Kaspar…”

“Hi Kaspar. Nice to meet you. Wish it could have been under better circumstances. So, you saw us, you ran, so you must be expecting someone?”

Kaspar swallows, “I'm not!” he practically squeaks. “Just...ah...ahh…”

“That's it,” Tate encourages. He brushes his hand over Kaspar’s arm. “You can tell me?” He smiles, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible. Might not work, since Butch still has the guy in a death grip. Tate fiddles with his hair.

“Listen, listen. I was just...I needed caps? And this guy, from up North, he, he gave me the drugs, said he was getting out of the business. But kids liked them lots...because...flavors,” Kaspar’s voice keeps cracking, the pitch rising. “I didn't know what else to do, I swear!”

Tate sticks his tongue out slightly, biting at the tip. At least the kid is talking now. “It's okay...Kaspar?” Tate tilts his head to one side, making sure that Kaspar looks at him. “Where’s the rest of your gang?” Just taking the stash off of one kid doesn't solve the drug problem.

Kaspar shakes his head, his pink hair flying in Butch’s face. “I don't...I haven't been out here for long...I ran out of food and...shit. Shit. Please don't kill me.”

Tate sighs. Okay, so it's possible Kaspar has been working alone. As scared as he is, Tate’s pretty sure he’d be rolling on his friends, if he had any. “This is what we’re going to do. You're going to take us to your stash and hand over everything, okay? And we’re going to leave you some food. Enough to get you through the next couple of days. Find a new job?”

Kaspar nods, “Okay. Okay, I'll take you to where I left the rest.”

“Good,” Tate squeezes Kaspar’s shoulder. “You're not going to run, are you?”

“No! I promise.”

Butch lets Kaspar go before he’s actually ready and the kid ends up a heap on the ground. Tate almost feels sorry for him. It's not like he was a model citizen at Kaspar’s age or anything. Hell, Tate did shit a hundred times worse than selling drugs to kids, maybe. Okay, so the drug thing is maybe a little evil. Tate never meant to be...bad. He just wasn't stellar at being good, either.

They let Kaspar lead the way back into the maze, staying close on his heels. Kaspar talks under his breath, but nothing that Tate can really make out. Next to him, Butch asks, “You sure about this?”

“He's just trying to survive,” Tate argues.

“He’ll just end up starving again.” Butch isn't wrong.

Smiling, Tate says, “Might be kinder to kill him.”

Kaspar whips around, his eyes wide, “You promised!”

Tate laughs, “We’re fucking with you.”

Flushing as brightly as his hair, Kaspar turns back around to look where they're going. They've almost reached the edge of the maze, putting them back out into the open air. 

“Who are you guys anyway? Some sort of mercenaries?” Kaspar asks.

“Something like that….” Tate's not sure how to explain. “Mercenary” doesn't really sit right with him. “We have a habit of helping people.”

“For caps?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then you're mercenaries,” Kaspar scoffs. “I wanted to be a mercenary...but it didn't work out.”

“Obviously,” Butch says.

Kaspar falls silent after that. 

He leads them to an old, burnt mail truck. The front end is completely demolished; the rear sticking out at an odd angle. There's a lock on the back door. Kaspar pulls out a set of keys from around his neck, using one in the lock and popping it open. “Everything’s in there.”

“Watch my back, Butch?” Not that Tate doesn't trust Kaspar...but he doesn't trust Kaspar for one fucking second.

Tate hops up into the back of the truck. There's more back here than just the drugs: spare sets of clothing, old notebooks, a tea kettle. Tate leaves all that shit alone. It looks like Kaspar has been living in the cramped truck.

He finds the duffle bag filled with chems. It's more than just the candy mentats. There's Jet in there too, and some med-x. They'd be good trade, but Butch is right. The food they leave for Kaspar won't last that long. And as long as he's not selling drugs specifically to kids...selling chems is normal.

Tate only takes the fruit flavored stuff, sticking it into his bag. They'll throw it into the river or something. Let the lurks get high as fuck. Even mutant crab people deserve a party every once in awhile.

They didn't bring much in the way of supplies with them on this trip. Hunting Kaspar was only supposed to take a couple of hours. But they know better than to do anything unprepared, so Tate’s got enough food for four days, if Kaspar rations it alright. Tate leaves the cans and boxes of food in the place of the chems.

“Okay,” Tate sticks his head back out of the van, “We’re good. I left you some food.” He hops down, his feet kicking up dust on impact.

“Really? Really-really you're not going to kill me?”

Butch shrugs, “Would be messy.”

“Just, don't sell chems to kids. Have a little common sense?” Tate suggests

Kaspar isn't much more than a kid himself. And Tate’s not an idiot. He knows that Kaspar is a Jet addict. He's down right now, but that doesn't mean much. Tate spent almost three years watching Butch on that shit, before he got clean. So, yeah, he can tell from a dozen little things, the blood vessels in his eyes and the way he got winded just from crying. Other stuff too.

“Yeah, yeah! I promise. I promise, Tate.”

“Good,” Tate tugs on Butch’s jacket so that they can leave.

\--

Tate wakes up face first in a pillow, Butch’s arm draped over his waist. He's warm and comfortable and trying not to think about today being the day Amata and the others should be back.

He should be happy, instead he's filled with gnawing dread.

Over the last ten years, he's thought about Amata a lot. A lot-a lot. Not every day, because he's had a lot of days where he couldn't think about anything but survival. And a bunch of days when he only cared about himself. But he could never forget her. Impossible.

But he didn't try to find her, either.

Tate rolls onto his back, trying not to disturb Butch too much.

Butch who didn't tell him the whole truth, back in ‘77. Butch said Tate needed to make Amata stay in the Vault. She couldn't leave with them. Tate should have asked why, but he didn't. He was too keyed up and short tempered and wanted Butch so, so bad. He didn't want to walk out of the Vault alone again, sending messages that were always UNDELIVERABLE. 

So Tate marched to Amata’s room not knowing. He told her, someone had to be Overseer now. Amata started rattling off names for her father’s replacement, her eyes still red from crying.

“No, Amata, you know it has to be you,” he'd said.

“Tate…”

“You’ll be safe here. It's dangerous.”

“But you're taking Butch?”

“Yeah...Amata...I love him. I always have...you know that.”

He hadn't said it aloud...ever. Not to Butch, not to himself, not to anyone.

“Oh...Tate,” Tate remembers her crying. He was crying too. “Tate, I'm pregnant.”

He didn’t have to ask. He knew. “Butch.”

Amata nodded, tried to keep from crying again. Because as far as she was concerned, Butch wasn’t worth crying over.

“You love him?” Tate asked. 

Long ago, like, when they were fucking little kids and he first realized that he was supposed to like Amata like that, but didn’t, though he liked her a lot, and that he wasn’t supposed to like Butch like that, but did, a lot, he’d prepared himself for this. He’d wanted it. If he couldn’t make Amata happy and he couldn’t have Butch, he wanted them to maybe have each other. Especially after Butch stopped being such an ass and started being really polite to Amata, though still a fucking terror to Tate, but that was okay because Tate liked it. He liked it when Butch would tackle him to the ground on the reactor level and grab at him while Amata practiced shooting and laughed until her sides hurt.

“No, Tate. No. I think...no...not like you do,” she wrapped her arms around her waist. 

And, knowing everything Tate knows now, maybe he would have made a different choice.

Maybe not, though, because the first few years out of the Vault, he was dumb as hell and Butch was too. And it was a miracle, maybe, that they made it out alive. They should have died. But maybe not because they were always stronger and faster and more resilient than whatever shit the Wasteland could throw at them. So they made it. They lived. And Amata could’ve lived too. But she could have died. There’s no way of knowing. But Tate made his choice, eleven years ago.

“You’re staying here, where it’s safe. Amata…” he regretted it, even then, the particular words he conjured to make her stay. “My mom...she died giving birth to me up there...if you…”

And Amata stayed.

“You have to go,” he voice was firm. Turning on a pinhead, her eyes drying. Amata was Overseer.

Tate shifts around a little more until he’s got hold of Butch’s left arm. He taps at the Pipboy’s buttons to turn on the screen, the soft green glow illuminating the room. Butch is probably half awake, but doesn’t say anything as Tate checks the time: 8:11. They should probably get up. Tate drops Butch’s arm back down, waiting for it to squeeze around his waist again.

“Impossible to fucking sleep with you around.”

“You’re such a whiny punkass,” Tate rolls over again so he’s tucked against Butch’s chest, his head just under Butch’s chin and their legs tangled together. 

\--

Amata and Freddie, and the children, arrive just after ten.

Michael, the little boy, shrieks with joy when he sees Butch and Tate, running full speed towards them, his child-sized knapsack bouncing against his back as he charges forward. He's got straight hair, like his dad, that bounces as he runs.

He doesn't slow down in time, crashing into Tate’s knees, talking a mile a minute. “Mama said you were gonna be here soon and I kept asking when that was gonna be and she said soon soon, just that you had important stuff still in the Commonwealth but that you were gonna come down and help us just as soon as you could and now you're here!” Nowhere in his stream of excitement does Michael take the time to breathe.

“Good to see you too, Mikey,” Tate ruffles his hair.

Amata and Freddie keep their pace, smiling and waving towards Tate and Butch, but Clara drags behind. Her parents don't push her to keep up. She's ten and that's old enough that they don't have to watch her every move, especially in a well-fortified settlement square.

Amata smiles, “Glad you could make it,” she sounds too proper, too much like an Overseer. And when she throws her arms around Tate’s neck, he could swear he smells lemons. She squeezes, burning her face at Tate’s neck. “We were getting worried.”

Butch is hugging Freddie and then they all switch places. Tate never had that kinda friendship with Freddie. Not like Freddie and Butch had, but he hugs Freddie anyway because he just looks so fucking pleased.

“You recovered alright?” Amata asks, coming up on her toes to pat down Butch’s hair. The gesture is really kind of intimate. Tate sort of forgets this is the way it always was. There's that saying, right? Old habits die hard? Vault habits die never.

“Takes more than three-dozen synths to keep me down, doll,” Butch smiles. Not like, a real one, but one that he's dredges up out of the archives.

Clara keeps her distance, but she asks, “You didn't bring Gill?”

Butch answers, “No?” 

No one said anything about bringing the kid the Survivor swiped off the Prydwen before blowing it to Kingdom come. Like, yeah, Clara and Gillian were getting along back at the Castle. Both of them probably were grateful just to see someone else their own age. It's only sort of natural they would grow attached. But Tate and Butch weren't about to haul Gillian down from the Commonwealth just for a play date.

“Come here, Clara,” Amata reaches back for her daughter, “don't be impolite.”

But it ain't about politeness. They all know it. Well, maybe not Michael who is definitely still talking and nobody's paying attention to him, but he doesn't seem to much care. There’s this cloud hanging in the air between the rest of them. 

Clara is this...monster, fuck something. What's that book? Frankenstein. Tate read it. It's okay. But like, so the monster, not Frankenstein because Frankenstein is the doctor, is made up of these bits and pieces right? And looking at Clara, she's bits and pieces too. Except she's this perfectly formed little girl, with her black hair tied up in a tight ponytail and her eyes are really fucking blue. She looks like someone tore apart Butch and built him smaller.

Tate doesn't think it's his place to say a fucking word. But Butch doesn't say anything either. And Amata doesn’t. And this is probably not Freddie’s fault, because he's just the guy who raised her, knowing full well every day she is Butch’s. But Freddie, Freddie is really her father. Because he's the one who was there when Clara was born and he was the one to promise Amata the world and actually fucking deliver when Tate and Butch were so fucking stupid and scared. But none of them know how to articulate any of this.

So Clara just stands around in her combat boots and Freddie’s old Tunnel Snake jacket that she’ll grow into one day and nothing at all gets resolved.

“I could use some coffee,” Freddie claps Butch on the back, encouraging him to follow back into the bar.

Clara asks her mom if she can go to the trader. See if there are any new comics for sale? Amata says that's fine. Be safe.

Tate waits, watches Clara walk off to the market stalls, her hands shoved in the pockets of her jacket. Her hair is tied up with a bright blue ribbon.

They can't keep not-talking about it. But none of them have the right vocabulary.


	3. She's Always Been Pretty and that's Never Been Enough

Amata and Freddie have a house in Kinwood. A gift for having fixed the generators that run along the rear of the old strip mall.

“Didn't know you had the skill.” Tate winces, “but I suppose it's been a long time.” People can learn a lot in ten years.

Freddie laughs, explaining, “We just stuck a couple inches of copper wire in it and banged it with a wrench til it started working again.”

That sounds too familiar for comfort. Everything is held together with twine and hope.

Their house is decent, with steel walls and a real wood floor. It's smaller than the place Butch and Tate had at Megaton, bigger than the green-porched house in Carmel they never finished. Weird to think it's been over a year since they left the NCR. Somehow the years feel fucking longer and shorter at the same time. Like they've got their timelines all jumbled up. Crisscrossing sequences as they move across the continent.

“We have two bedrooms,” Amata explains, “you can stay in the second one, we’ll just move the kids in with us for the night.”

Tate shakes his head, “We’ve got a room at the...Chid-Chid-Fed?”

“The what?” Amata asks.

Butch has no clue how to pronounce it either.

“Cad-Che-Fed?” Tate tries again.

“I think it's Sid-si-fed?” Freddie offers. “But hell if I know. I don't think anyone knows.”

Amata sits on the armrest of the couch, tucking her feet against the cushion, “Alright then. The kids will certainly appreciate that.”

“Anyone want beer?” Freddie offers, pulling open the fridge.

Clara shouts, “Me!”

“Not you,” Freddie calls back, four beers between his two hands. He kicks the door to make sure it closes tight, the hinges groaning in protest.

Butch shouldn't say anything, but he mumbles, “You should be careful about that, Clara.”

Clara might not catch it, because she's made a habit outta ignoring Butch. But Amata hears it loud and fucking clear. She rubs her socked feet against the couch. 

Freddie goes down the row, opening all four beers and tossing the caps into a tin cup on the countertop. He hands Amata her beer first, then Tate, then Butch, before settling down on the couch next to Amata. He takes the cushion while she stays perched on the armrest.

Butch leans against the wall while Tate sits down in the armchair, taking a sip from the bottle. “When do you wanna leave?”

Michael flops down next to his father, trying to stick his head in Freddie’s lap. If they've been traveling all morning, the kid is probably tired.

Michael looks a lot like Freddie, with brown eyes and dark hair and the same sort of nose and softness when he smiles. It doesn't even take a minute for the kid to pass out, Freddie’s arm around his chest, except when he’s gotta raise his beer to drink.

“Tomorrow,” Amata insists. “We’ll be ready, if you are?”

“Don't you need to rest?” Tate asks.

Amata shakes her head, curls bouncing against her neck. She's still...really pretty. Though she looks worn. She was always a tiny thing, no more than five-foot-three, with nice, full hips and round tits and just, everything. And she's still nice to look at because Butch isn't blind. But he never loved her, and being here, ten years after the fact, he knows he never could. Things worked out for the best.

“Freddie and I are used to it. And we’ll leave the children in Kinwood.”

“I want to go!” Clara argues. She's loud enough to wake her brother. “I'm not a little kid.”

“You can't,” Freddie shakes his head, “Curie is coming to watch you and your brother.” He runs his fingers through Michael’s hair, trying to soothe him back to sleep. 

Clara stomps off towards the bedrooms, muttering under her breath about how unfair her whole life is and how she's going to feed herself to molerats and a whole host of improbable fates that will befall her if her parents leave her behind. She's kind of fucking young to already be in angsty teenager mode. But when they were ten, they all had cabin fever in the Vault, picking fights and sneaking around and looking for any trouble they could find. So maybe it wasn't the Vault that did it to them. Made them all anxious and clawing at the walls. Though every Waster they’ve ever met use the Vault as an explanation for why Butch and Tate are so fucking weird.

Clara slams the door behind her with a firm finality that shakes the whole house.

And, for the first time, Amata acknowledges what they never talk about.

“What did you mean, Butch? About Clara being careful?”

He shouldn't have said nothing.

Taking a sip from his beer, he doubles down, “Ya know, genetics.”

Tate isn't looking at him, or Amata, or anyone, turning his head and staring into the kitchen. Like the dented kettle is really fucking interesting.

“There's bullshit, about addiction, for alcohol and chems and shit, being genetic. And you all knew my ma…”

Freddie doesn't say anything either.

“And you?” Amata asks, her voice soft, wary.

Butch hesitates, but he should be honest. Because, yeah, he doesn't want Clara to go through the same shit he has. “I went through rehab for Jet when I was 24. Out West, uh, some sort of experimental thing,” Butch can't stand looking at Amata anymore, her face full of regret, of pity too. Butch didn't mean for his fucking genes to fuck up her first kid. He didn't. “I've been clean since then.” He takes another swig of beer. “Don't drink anything harder than this, and I hope for the best. Yah know?”

No one says anything for a long moment. Then just Tate with a soft, “Sorry.” Like it’s his fucking fault. 

Tate can shoot up or snort down every chem ever dreamed up by some punk ass fiend Einsteins and he doesn't get addicted. He hasn't done it since Hoover Dam, but if he had to cream some armored fuck in his steel plated panties again, Tate would do it in an instant and wouldn't pay the same price Butch does.

Amata swallows the saliva in her mouth. Probably swallows a bunch of questions too. “Brynford isn't that far. Couple hours walk. We’ll probably want to spend the night there. You two can get a read on the situation. Then we can head back here. Make plans about what to do.”

“Not gonna give us any clues about what's happening here?” Tate asks.

Freddie sighs, “It's complicated.”

Tate rolls his eyes, “It always is.”

Amata explains, “The immediate problem in Brynford are the rival Raider gangs. We've been trying to get into the Vaults, but we haven't had much luck. The Lizards won't let us anywhere near Vault 85. We’ve had some better luck talking to the Black Goats, but not much. They're the ones over top of Vault 33.”

“But we need the G.E.C.K.s from both Vaults for this to work. To keep the Vaults safe. They were always designed to function together,” Freddie clarifies.

Tate wrinkles his nose, “Why the fuck do you need a G.E.C.K.?”

“They ain't for us,” Freddie shakes his head. “Listen, after you left the Commonwealth, a bunch of those scientists from Project Purity? They got a lot of ideas,” Freddie says.

“So, how the fuck do you fit in? What are we doing?” Butch interjects. He doesn't like where this is going.

Amata glares at him. Michael is asleep, but he's still in the room, his head lax on Freddie’s lap. “How do Vaulties fit into anything up here?” Amata cocks her head, “Wasters are useless.”

\--

Bright and early at seven in the fucking morning, Butch and Tate show up at Amata and Freddie’s door. A woman in a short haircut with pink cheeks opens the door. “Ah! You must be Monsieurs DeLoria and Zhang!” she exclaims. She's got some sort of accent but Butch has got no idea. Uh, French, maybe? He's heard some holos in French. “Please, come in. Amata and Freddie have been waiting for you.”

This must be Curie. But other than that, Butch doesn’t really know. She's very strange when she moves, like she doesn't know how far her limbs extend. She gasps when she sees Tate’s arm. “Oh, oh,” her hands flutter wildly, “Amata did not tell me you are a synth as well.”

Tate frowns, the skin between his eyes crinkling, it's about the only place he has wrinkles right now, which makes Butch mad as hell because the corners of his own eyes and around his nose are starting to get all weird and lumpy. “It's just a prosthetic. And what do you mean ‘as well?’”

Cutie puts her hand in front of her face. “I am so sorry for assuming. But it looks so very like Institute technology.”

“No,” Tate says firmly, “the Boneyard doctors built it.”

“Boneyard?” she asks.

Not answering her question, Tate repeats, “What do you mean, ‘a synth as well.’”

“Ah, perhaps it is not so obvious anymore, yes? I am more accustomed to this body. But I am a synth. Well, no, I am Curie. But I am Curie in a synth body.”

“Right,” Tate shakes his head. 

Butch ain't really got a problem with synths. He had a problem with Harkness, A3-21, whatever. But that was all circumstances. Butch fucking hated the guy, but mostly because Tate kept telling him to stick his robot-dick into Tate’s ass when they were twenty and terrified.

“But come in, come in, there is breakfast!” Curie steps aside to let Butch and Tate into the house.

Michael is on the couch, reading out loud, to himself. He traces over each sentence with his middle finger to keep his place. Butch thinks that's funny as hell cause it looks like he's flipping everyone off but he’s really such a sweet kid.

“We’re just finishing up packing!” Amata calls from the bedroom. “There's food on the counter.”

It's bread and Brahmin jerky and there's a carafe of thin, grainy coffee. Butch pours a cup and hands it to Tate, who’s already chewing on a strip of meat.

When Amata emerges from the bedroom, she has her hair in a braid to keep it off her neck and face. She's got her combat armor on and a rifle over her shoulder. Maybe him and Tate are underdressed. But they mostly don't bother with anything heavier than leather armor anymore.

“Is it gonna be that dangerous?” Butch asks, swallowing a chunk of bread. He coughs. Should've chewed it better.

Amata looks down at herself, then over at Butch, “Do you really just wear that?”

Tate tugs at one of the straps on his chest. “I can move better this way. Faster, quieter, more flexible you know?” They'd fought together when the Institute attacked the Castle, but that was a surprise. None of them were prepared.

Freddie comes out of the bedroom just then, with a shotgun over his back. “They've been at this longer than we have, love. I'm sure they know their limits.” Grabbing up some of the jerky, Freddie shoves the whole thing in his mouth. 

“Alright, fine. I just can't believe, ten years and Tate still can't shoot straight.”

Tate smiles, “Don't know what to tell you.”

Butch doesn't see Clara before they leave.

\--

It rains the whole way to Brynford. 

Tate passes around a bottle of Rad-X and they all dose. So even though the rain tingles when it hits their skin, the meds soak up the rads pretty well. After the first hour of walking, the Rad-X goes around again, along with a bottle of RadAway to knock off the extra they’ve accumulated. 

Freddie chews on his RadAway pill with his back molars.

“Ugh, gross,” Tate says, “they taste disgusting.” Tate always swallows his whole.

“No they don’t?” Freddie says, “they taste like chalk.”

“Fucking, fuck, you eat chalk Freddie?”

“I don’t mean literally like chalk. But I like the texture?”

Butch agrees with Tate. That’s gross. 

“We’re on the edge of Black Goat territory now,” Amata says after the second hour of walking. 

Wasteland looks the same everywhere, but Butch can see the ruins of the old college up ahead. Three-story dormitories are clustered together around what looks like a central quad, and further in the distance are a couple of taller academic buildings.

“We need to detour around, back towards the apartments,” she explains, “my contact is there.”

Skirting around campus, they walk another ten minutes South. The apartments are all two story buildings, long and low with bright awnings and brick walls. They’re not nearly as grand as the main campus, clearly built with practicality in mind, rather than aesthetics.

Amata walks right up to one of the apartment blocks, banging on the tattered screen door. “Lis? Lis, it’s me, Amata.”

Butch and Tate stand back, waiting for the door to open.

Lis shows up, his brown hair tied up in a ponytail and a toddler flailing about in his arms, knocking into the Pipboy on his left wrist. The kid wants to get down so bad that they’re trying to flip over, and Lis has to keep adjusting his grip to keep a hold on the kid. “Well, get in,” he says over the screaming, stepping away from the door and trying to regain control of the distraught child he’s trying to wrangle.

Once they’re in the narrow hallway, Freddie reaches out to grab the child instead, though he only gets marginally a better grip on them than Lis has. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Freddie starts babbling, holding the child up so they can look in Freddie’s eyes.

“What can I do for you?” Lis asks Amata.

The party heads into one of the apartment units. There’s no door on the outside. None of the units have doors anymore, all of them are open. Down the hall, Butch can hear more people talking, laughing, and sometimes yelling. But it all sounds happy.

“Lis, this is Butch and Tate,” she makes introductions, “Butch and Tate, this is Lis.”

“Pleasure,” Lis sticks out his fine boned hand. They’re skinnier than the rest of him, with visible, gnarled bones, though Lis can’t be more than thirty. 

Tate shakes first, then Butch. “We’re used to asking what we can do for other people,” Tate snickers, “this is a change.”

“Unless you can change four-hundred years of fighting. There’s nothing you can do for me,” Lis replies. 

“Four-hundred?” Tate asks.

Lis snorts, “Basically since the Colleges were founded. Nuclear war did nothing to ease tensions. Here,” Lis reaches out to Freddie, bundling up the child, who has sort of half fallen asleep and gone all floppy in Freddie's arms, “I'll put them to bed.”

There's a crib just in the corner of the room, piled high with soft blankets and hand-me-down toys. All toys are that way, now. The kid is probably too old for the crib, but Butch figures it keeps them from rolling away.

“We need help getting into Vault 33,” Amata explains.

Lis snickers, “That’s not happening.”

Amata scowls, “It has to happen.”

“It isn't,” Lis insists, “33 can't be opened unless 85 opens at the same time. Vault-tec rigged them that way. May, they’ll open again in May, when they let the Graduates out.”

Shaking her head, Amata argues, “It's January, we can't wait that long.”

“If you can't get in, neither can, what's their name?”

“Lazarus,” Amata growls. “Except they won't wait for the doors to open. And they won't play nice. Right now they're cleaning out the Citadel.”

Tate looks up, “They're scaving the Brotherhood tech?”

Amata nods, “Not just that. You have to keep in mind, the Brotherhood cleaned up after the Enclave. There was some base...Adams Air Force?”

Butch knows the name. Tate must too. When the Brotherhood came after Tate back in Megaton, when he didn't want to fight for them anymore. It was about Adams. 

“But...what about the Prydwen? Didn't they sink their resources into that?” Tate's gotta know that's a lame excuse. With the Enclave gone, they left behind a Capital with only one brute power force.

This is the world they built. Him and Tate.

Amata looks at her hands, then back to Tate. “When we were on the Prydwen, I got access to a bunch of files. They locked up their terminals tight. But they're sloppy with paperwork. I was able to read a lot. They may have dedicated a lot of resources to the Prydwen, but it was just a matter of scaving more from Adams. But, that’s how we found out about their plans for the sealed Vaults.”

Freddie picks up, “The Brotherhood didn’t know about 33 and 85. They were just looking for ways to solidify their power, right? So with the Prydwen completed, they started on a new project. Think of it as a big can opener. They can just wrench a sealed Vault open. Because what happens when you’ve had your fun on the surface? You start going after what no one else has ever touched.”

“But the Brotherhood is in shambles,” Tate argues, his hands fisted on the armrests of his chair, “the Prydwen is nothing but wreckage. The last Maxson is dead. They’re leaderless. Are you saying the Citadel is still up and running?”

Butch doesn’t like where this is headed at all.

“Tate,” Amata stares right at him, “Did you know a woman, named Madison Li?”

Oh boy.

Tate scowls, “Yeah, she worked with my dad.”

Butch can still hear her staticky voice over the intercom at the purifier. 

_You really are your parents’ child, Tate._

It’s been ten fucking years and Butch still hates her. He doesn’t even know if Tate hates her. It’s not something they’ve ever talked about. But fuck. Butch could have just as easily been the one to break into the containment barrier, to release the pressure valve on the purifier. It didn’t have to be Tate. She goaded Tate into it. She did. And Butch can’t forgive her for that. It’s her fault Tate was laid up in a coma for months at the Citadel, that the Brotherhood held him like some fucking Sleeping Beauty all that time. That the Brotherhood thought they could fucking keep him forever. They ran Butch out under the pretense of keeping Tate safe. Butch’s blood still boils. He should have never been afraid of those fuckers.

And now, Tate thinks beer tastes funny.

“She stayed with the Brotherhood a few years after, then mysteriously disappeared. The Brotherhood had intelligence that she joined the Institute?” Amata tries asking, hoping Tate will fill in the blanks.

Tate just stares back at her, sort of empty, dark eyes dull, “I didn’t see her. We evacuated who we could from the Institute. But, Butch and I were in the teleporter room the whole time. I never saw her.”

Amata sighs, “Well, the hunt for her didn’t end when the Prydwen went down. Lazarus is looking for her too. Unless she’s dead...she’s the institutional memory for a lot of really dangerous people. Some of Lazarus’ leadership worked on Project Purity, some of them joined later. But as far as we can tell, they’ve pretty much recruited the Brotherhood remnants as their muscle over the last year.”

“And they’re going to use that can opener to pry open 33 and 85?” Butch asks.

Freddie and Amata nod in sync, Freddie clarifies, “They moved in immediately when Maxson died.”

“This is all very interesting,” Lis interjects, “But none of this gets you four into the vaults.” 

“So you will help us?” Amata’s voice is full of sparkling hope.

In a way, she hasn’t aged in the last ten years. She sounds so young. Butch wonders if he and Tate sound the same to her?

“I can’t. But there might be someone.”

\--

Butch, Tate, and Freddie have to stay behind. Wendy won’t talk to them, Lis says.

Freddie kisses Amata goodbye, their foreheads touching, though he’s gotta bend down real far, and tells her to be safe. Butch doesn’t like it either, that Amata has to go alone. But it’s gotta be ripping Freddie to shreds. Fuck, the way Butch felt every time Tate would fucking run off. 

They stand in the yard in front of the apartments, watching her disappear around the bend, heading for Lizards territory. She’ll be okay. She’s tough. She always has been. She shot Stevie Mack, square between the eyes when she was eighteen. Butch didn’t kill no one until he was twenty. 

Lis sits on the cracked concrete steps in front of the apartment building, playing with that kid. Kid’s name is Howie, “For now,” Lis explains. “If they like something better later,” he shrugs his shoulders.

There’s not really much to do but wait. The apartments are secure. There’s been no sign of trouble since they’ve arrived. 

The building itself, the one Lis and Howie and like, another dozen people Butch didn’t bother to learn the names of live in, is cramped, but in pretty good condition. Some of the other buildings are too run down to be habitable anymore, with collapsed roofs and missing walls. 

Lis says he’s gotta head back inside to help with chores. Freddie says he can take Howie, if he wants? Lis hands the kid over. They’ll just get in the way inside, so Freddie, Tate, and Butch stay outside, settling down in the winter-frosted grass. It's surprisingly thick here. Not like the dead, patchy mess Butch is used to everywhere else. But the East Coast is changing, in a cosmic sort of way. Been changing since they crawled above ground.

Tate ends up leaning with his back against Butch’s chest. Butch wraps his arms around Tate’s waist to hold him in place. They fit together really well like this. And it's cold enough outside that Butch likes the heat. 

“You really like kids, don't ya, Freddie?” Tate asks, drumming his fingers against the back of Butch’s hand.

Freddie smiles, “Yeah, I mean, yeah. We would've liked another. But it didn't happen. Guess it's not too late now. We ain't that old. After all this is over, maybe.” Howie has fallen asleep again. “Just it feels like above ground, the world never stops. There's never time. You ever think about it? Kids?”

Butch keeps his fucking mouth shut.

Snickering, Tate jokes, “You met our son, remember? About 5’10”, shaggy hair, fond of dresses and that Minuteman?”

“I'd hardly call a twenty-year-old you kidnapped from the Brotherhood your kid, Tate,” Freddie laughs.

“He's twenty-five. And we raised him right, okay? We did a good job with him.”

They'd left Yalda up in the Commonwealth with Preston Garvey. He’ll be happier there than running around the Wasteland. Hell, Butch and Tate would be happier settling down too. Butch has sort of given up hope of ever going back to California. But they could try again. Another house on the water. This time, Butch will actually make Tate help build it. No excuses.

“Besides,” Tate turns his head to glance down at Howie. “You know how I was. Still am. There's no way.”

Butch feels the bite of Tate’s nails as they dig into his wrist.


	4. Figure Out how to Explain all Possible Futures

Tate can't sleep. Can't sleep, can't sleep. He thinks something is wrong. But it's only the bed. The bed is small so he's practically on top of Butch. They could've taken separate beds, but that's no good either. Tate likes sleeping next to Butch. He likes being able to check that they're both still breathing. It would be fucking lame to die in their sleep. But this way, he can be sure, sure, sure, that Butch is alive.

“Tate,” Butch mumbles against the pillow, “go to sleep.”

“I am.”

Butch grunts, shifting around so he's more comfortable. Then Tate’s gotta move so his head isn't directly on Butch’s elbow or anything. It's not a problem of comfort.

Amata still isn't back. Lis says not to worry. As long as she's alone, the Lizards won't try shit. Earlier, Freddie ripped one of his nails off with his teeth. He tried to hide what he had done, keeping the nail in his mouth, between his teeth. But Tate saw. Didn't say anything though, even when Freddie swallowed the evidence.

“What’s wrong, Tate?"

They have the room to themselves. But it's fuckng tiny. Basically a cot thrown in one of the apartment block’s utility closets. There’s this metal pipe running along the back wall, all the paint chipping away. Other than the cot, there's a built in shelving unit and about six square feet of floor space.

“Did, do, you want a kid?”

“Tate…”

“Don't lie.”

“I have a kid.”

Tate talks without really thinking, but Butch won't hold it against him. “Not really. She looks like you, but she ain't yours.”

“I know.”

And fuck, fuck, now Tate feels awful for even saying anything. Like this is one of those things they should just never fucking mention. Because not talking is always easier than talking for them. And even when they talk, it's only in thinly spread suggestions. But he has to know. Tate has to know even now that Butch doesn't regret this. Regret choosing him, when really Tate didn't let him have a choice at all.

If Tate had left Butch in the Vault, maybe he would be Clara’s dad.

“Way I figure it,” Butch kinda sounds halfway back to sleep already, “She has a dad who loves her. And that's more than I ever got. So, my plan worked.”

Tate feels like he's gonna puke.

\--

Amata’s back to the apartments by eight am. Her hair is freshly braided and she looks unhurt, but unhappy too. She stomps into Lis’ kitchen, where he's making tea.

“Tate,” she snaps, “you're coming with me.”

“What?” Not like Tate is going to say ‘no’ to Amata. He's pretty much told himself whatever Amata wants from him, she's gonna get. Like, this is his way of cosmically setting the balance right. He doesn't resent her in the least for it either.

She huffs, grabbing the mug of tea directly out of Freddie’s hands and taking a sip before continuing. “Wendy is getting me into Vault 85. And you're coming with.”

“I thought the Lizards wouldn't talk to men?”

“They won't,” Amata clarifies, “so you won't be talking. But we made a deal I could bring someone along. I thought about going back to Kinwood to get Curie. But if things go to shit, she can't shoot that well.”

“I can't shoot that well either,” Tate points out. He half knows where this is going already. And he really doesn't like it. Amata has to know he doesn't like it. Unless she's forgotten.

It's been fucking years. But Tate still can't quite shake it. No matter how many times Butch says it isn't true. He's not a substitute. He's not. He knows Butch wouldn't have stuck with him all these years if he was just a placeholder. Lots and lots of women would throw themselves at Butch easy. Tate is hard. So he's not a substitute.

“No, but you can hit things real hard. I gave them the option of you, or Freddie, and they picked you.”

Didn't give Butch. Because there ain't that much difference between Freddie and Butch maybe. Tate doesn't know. He might know, Amata might try to explain if he asks. But he doesn't even know if he has the right to ask anymore. How much of Amata’s energy he gets to suck up. Sometimes it's real natural, the way they still fit together. And sometimes Tate feels like he's sinking his claws into the mountainside, dirt crumbling under his grip.

“Okay, when do we go?”

Amata breathes a sigh of relief, “Now.”

Tate’s gotta grab his armor and bag from the closet before they go. Gotta kiss Butch goodbye too. Cause like, it could always be the last. Tate doesn't know if he believes that or not, or maybe it's just about how much he likes kissing Butch, even now. Doesn't feel electric all the time, anymore. But there's this dull ache through Tate’s chest every time, right in the place Butch fits.

That sounds ridiculous.

It's about a mile to Lizard’s territory. Amata keeps her mouth set as they walk. Tate closes down his stride so he doesn't get ahead of her. He's so used to trying to keep up with Butch. 

“What do I need to know?” Tate asks.

Amata worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Wendy got me a meeting with the current Overseer, she calls herself Athena. But, apparently, that's just their generic name for Overseer, now.”

Tate tugs at the strap on the front of his armor, the one that buckles across his chest. “And what, we just ask for the G.E.C.K?”

“Wendy thinks it's unlikely that anyone in the Vault even knows where the G.E.C.K. is. She graduated twelve years ago and can't remember anyone mentioning it. So, yeah, maybe we ask and we get it. They don't even know what they're sitting on.”

“But Lazarus, what do they want with it?”

“Tate…” Amata looks around, they must be getting close to Lizard territory now. She tugs at his arm, pulling him into what looks like an old bar. The chipped, gold-glit lettering says “Roach & O’Brien” overhead. Inside, the floor tiles are green and black. “When you fought the Enclave, how much did you know about their goals?”

Tate’s chest seizes. He's never told anyone about this. Not Butch, not the Brotherhood, no one. It was his decision to bear. Fuck, besides, the Brotherhood probably would have told him to fucking do it. To wipe out everyone in the Wastes, purify the gene pool in one fell swoop. It would have been so easy.

If he did it, Butch would be okay. Amata would be okay, and Freddie and the children. Everyone from the Vault. But not him. Because he's an imposter. Always has been. But Amata has to know. She would have seen the Overseer’s files. She knows he wasn't born in the Vault. And now neither one of them is gonna die there either. What a fucking accomplishment.

Leaning back against the wall, Tate stares up at the cruddy ceiling. The boards come away in patches, threatening to smother them.

“I was given this serum...Eden, Eden said,” he can't look at Amata. She's so bright as to be blinding. “They wanted me to put it in the purifier at Jefferson Memorial. It would...eradicate people with mutations. Not just ghouls and mutants, but any human who wasn't...pure.”

Amata hisses between his teeth, “Tate. You know, right?”

“That I was born in the Wastes? Yeah. I know. And that didn't even matter at that point, like.” He starts to laugh, “I had already met all these people, really fucking good people, Wasters, and ghouls, and even this one super mutant who hadn't lost his mind. I knew he was good too because he hated me,” he's near hysterical now. Talking about this, after so many years, it feels like someone else’s life, like a movie he watched. “I didn't do it, obviously, I didn't do it. I broke apart the vial. I threw it on Autumn's chest after I,” Tate swallows, he doesn't even know if he's coherent anymore. “I put it on his chest and stomped it down with my power armor boot. I let it seep into his fucking blood. I'm not like that, Amata. You know I'm not.”

Tate's killed a lot of people. He killed Amata’s dad, and Freddie’s too. He killed Charon, even though Butch says that wasn't his fault. And he killed that man at Starfield, the only one who asked where Yalda was. 

There are a lot of other nameless deaths, but they don't have all fucking day for Tate to sift through the process of remembering.

“Lazarus reproduced the serum, and they already control the purifier. But its reach isn't far enough. The Capital watershed only reaches so far,” Amata explains. “The Underworld ghouls discovered it first. They only drink irradiated water, but the water that comes through the taps now is infected. It started to burn their hands.”

Tate can hear his heart inside his chest, “How long?”

“Got the first report in April, just over two weeks after the Prydwen went down,” Amata explains, “But we’ve been following Lazarus for the last year. At least, the scientists.”

Fighting composure back, Tate asks, “It’ll hurt them too. The scientists, the soldiers. Everyone.”

“They’re building an atmospheric distribution system. That's why they need another G.E.C.K. If they put the modified FEV into the air, they can spread it beyond the watershed.”

“Fuck,” Tate shudders, hiding his face in his hands, “this is my fault. If I'd...I don't know.”

Amata doesn't correct him, she doesn't try to soothe. She doesn't try to convince him he's not to blame. “Tate, why did you leave the Capital?”

It's simple, really, “The Brotherhood, they wanted me, they wouldn't leave us alone and. And Butch killed one of them. A dumb recruit. I think, even then, they would have taken me in. Just so they could use me. But they were never gonna let us live in peace.”

“Tate,” of course there are more questions, there always are. “What happened to Freddie’s dad?” her voice wavers.

“Fuck.” There's no use hiding behind his hands, “I tried to knock him out. Shot him too full of med-x. I didn't mean to kill him.”

“What did he do?” Not ‘why,’ or ‘how could you?’ Amata suspected something as well. Something Tate only glimpsed the surface of, before holding its ugly head below water and drowning it out. 

Tate only shakes his head. He won't tell her. For all their sakes.

\--

They meet with Wendy first, a short, plump woman just into her thirties with her dyed-cyan hair up high in two pigtails. From her eyebrows, Tate figures she’s a blonde or redhead, actually. But her irises are dark brown. Her mouth opens wide when she speaks or smiles, showing rows of teeth she’s filed to points. But even with her mouth open, she’s too soft and her voice too sweet to really appear vicious. 

“I talked with Athena over the comms,” she eyes Tate’s metal wrist, “You said he was a Vaultie too.” She taps against the case of her own Pipboy.

Tate swings his pack around so he can reach inside. Grabbing his Pipboy, he shows it to Wendy. “It won’t bioseal on the left anymore. And I can’t operate it when I seal it to the right,” he hopes that’s enough explanation. He’s got these puncture scars on his right arm, from when he wore it on that side, after Harkness ripped it off his left, and the skin on his forearm was too shredded up, just bloodied meat, to put it back on. But then he would have to explain how the Pipboy came off cleanly the second time. 

Wendy shrugs, “Athena might ask too. Might as well keep it out.”

She leads them through the central archway. The building they pass under looks rather like a castle, with long, narrow windows and a tower on either side of the grand entrance, before the rest of the building gets low again, stretching out to connect with buildings that look a slightly different style. Still stone and grand, but the outside walls weren’t all built at the same time. While that isn’t uncommon in the Wasteland, all of the buildings do look pre-War. Like, way pre-War. 

On the other side of the arch is the Old Quad. Ahead of them, a building that has been brought down to its foundations. On either side of them are more buildings in mismatched styles. 

A number of women mill about, mostly seated around the bare foundation. They exchange cigarettes and bottles of liquor. When one of them notices Tate, they all stare. 

Amata told him to keep his mouth shut, so that’s what he plans on doing. He looks at his feet and follows the sound of Amata and Wendy as they walk towards one of the dormitory buildings. 

This one is gray stone too, like all the others. In places it bulges outwards, like the stones are ready to burst. 

Pressing her Pipboy against the panel on the door, Wendy opens the maglock. She lets Amata and Tate in first. “Sorry, you guys have to use the back entrance. Athena doesn’t want a scene.

The ratty blue carpet under their feet looks totally out of place when juxtaposed with the outside of the building. Over their heads, Tate can hear people running along the hall upstairs. 

Wendy leads them to the wide staircase, though they don’t go up. Next to the stairs is a small metal door at ground level, only about two and a half feet tall, though much wider. 

“See?” Wendy jokes, “Your Freddie would have never fit inside.”

The dumbwaiter buzzes when the cart arrives. Wendy wrenches open the door with a loud clatter. “It’s safe, I use it at least once a week myself.”

Wendy’s right that Freddie would never fit inside the box. Butch wouldn’t either. As it is, Tate’s going to have trouble with his shoulders, though he’s fairly sure he can contort the rest of himself to squeeze in. 

“You should go first,” Wendy thumbs at him, “Make sure we can get you in.”

Tate’s not claustrophobic. As long as it’s not power armor. And he doesn’t think that counts as a phobia because he’s got plenty of reasons not to climb inside another tin can ever. 

Staring into the dumbwaiter, he tries to figure out the best way to squeeze himself inside. 

He ends up crouching low, angling his shoulders in first. Tucking his chin to his chest, Tate pulls his legs inside, curling them towards his stomach until his feet lay flat against the opposite wall. It’s a tight fit, but Wendy is able to close the door behind him.

The ride down to the basement is pitch black. Only the creaking of the dumbwaiter as it descends, metal on metal in the darkness. When Tate breathes, he can feel the warmth splash against his knees. His stomach constricts, trying to free up more space in the tiny box. 

When the dumbwaiter hits the bottom, Tate fingers the release switch, the door popping open far enough that he can reach and jam his fingers into the gap, prying open the door so he can tumble out. First thing he does is take a deep breath, his lungs and throat finally able to expand properly again. He’s not sure if his breathing really was restricted inside, or it just felt safer to take shallow breaths.

He hits the button to send the waiter back up. Taking this moment alone, he looks down the corridor. It’s not long, just earthen walls that are perpetually crumbling and a single bulb that plugs into an outlet next to an iron door. “85-R” is printed across the metal in yellow paint. It’s the reactor level emergency exit or something. If Athena is the Overseer, she must be able to open it at will. 

Amata arrives next. Tate helps her in pulling open the door. She doesn’t look any worse for wear either, smoothing down the front of her hair with one hand once she’s to her feet. They still have to wait for Wendy.

Tate helps Wendy out too, though certainly, she doesn’t need it, if she meets with Athena as often as she claims. Still, she takes Tate’s hand to help her to her feet. “It’s not getting any easier for me,” she huffs. “I should start sending one of the younger girls.”

Wendy raps at the door, waiting for an answer, humming to herself.

“Hello?” a staticky voice comes over the intercom.

“Athena? It’s Wendy.”

The voice on the other side sounds young, cheerful, “Who else would it be?”

The hydraulic lock loosens, hissing as the pressure decreases. The door opens, a girl of about twenty on the other side. Her dark skin set off by bright, warm eyes, she wears her hair in neat dreadlocks that only just skim her shoulders. 

“Wendy!” she throws her arms around Wendy’s shoulders, though she has to bend down to do so. Tate really can’t believe this is some sort of Raider gang they’re supposed to fear. Other than some strange looks, everyone has been perfectly polite and joyous. “So these are our visitors?”

“Amata Almodovar-Gomez,” Amata sticks out her hand to Athena, “Overseer of Vault 101 from 2278 to 2286.”

“Ah,” Athena shakes her hand, “I’m called Athena, I’ve been the Overseer since August. But my name is Travi. I guess you should call me Athena on the inside though.”

Amata told Tate not to say anything, so he doesn’t introduce himself. But when Athena sticks out her hand to him, he figures he’s gotta accept it. “And you are?”

“Tate DeLoria,” he doesn’t have a fancy title like Amata. 

“You’re a guy?” Athena asks.

Tate narrows his eyes at her, “Yeah?” He thought it was obvious? Fuck.

She just shrugs her shoulders, “Just keep that to yourself, I guess. I’m not going to be like, showing you around to people. Let Amata take the lead. We’re not supposed to let men inside. But if I let you two look for the G.E.C.K., she’s right that backup will help.”

Athena kisses Wendy on the cheek before gesturing for Amata and Tate to follow. Tate just catches as Wendy wipes the side of her face like Athena licked her, not the gentle peck it was. Still, she's smiling when the door closes.

Athena leads them through the halls. The Vault smells of lemons, so strong and sharp and like home Tate worries he might sob, then vomit. He thinks about how young Athena is. But Amata was the same age.

When Tate shot her father with shaking hands.

They don't see anyone, really, on their way to the Overseer’s office. Just two children about eleven or twelve years of age, who are too preoccupied with themselves to pay much attention to their Overseer.

Once inside the office, Athena takes her place behind the fortress of the Overseer’s desk. It swallows her up like a gaping maw, despite her height. She sits straight backed in her chair, waiting for Amata and Tate to take the seats across from her.

“Why should I trust you?” Athena asks. All the gentle warmth she projected earlier has drained, leaving her vessels bone dry. Now, it's easier for Tate to comprehend her as Overseer. This is what he expects.

There's more slouch in Amata’s posture, but the cadence of her voice changes too. Something harsher, more defined. She sounds like her father. And for a moment, Tate is ten again. Alphonso ordering him to put the Pipboy on.

“You get a choice,” Amata explains, “it's us or Lazarus.” 

Athena rolls her pen between her hands. “And if we choose to fight?”

“You will lose.”

“Did you lose? Almodovar-Gomez? Is that why you are here, and not in your Vault?”

Amata shakes her head, “101 has nothing they want, except ’pure’ bodies. They'd rather the residents stay in the can until they release the FEV.”

“Wendy told me about this. That they want to wipe out genetic abnormalities. But why should we care? Everyone born in 85 and 33 are pure, by their standards.”

Hissing between her teeth, Amata counters, “I know you take children born on the surface.”

Athena’s eyes waver, looking away from Amata and at her pen. “Wendy told you?”

“No, Lis. He told me that he wasn't taking his child back to 33. He wanted to keep them.”

Athena frowns, “I don't know Lis. But he shouldn't be telling outsiders about our business.”

“All those children will die when they go back above ground,” Amata states plainly. “You've already violated your instructions from Vault-Tec, haven't you?”

Laughing, Athena admits, “They violated their instructions after the first Overseer died. The experiment was untenable. And fucking worthless,” she rolls her eyes.”

Seeing her opportunity, Amata draws Athena in, choosing her words carefully, “You know what our experiment was? That 101 was never supposed to be opened. With a totally autocratic Overseer. We violated the first condition a dozen times before I was even born. But they kept on pretending like everything was proceeding as normal.”

“Why bother with the experiments?” Athena asks, “there's no Vault-Tec anymore. But the Vaults are safe, we have supplies. We might as well make use of them.”

Amata nods, “But you still follow some of the rules, right? Graduation?”

Athena corrects, “We made up Graduation. Er, one of the Overseers did. Once we violated the experiment conditions, we needed a way to remove people from the Vault. She still saw some logic in bringing up children in like-gender environments.”

“And I don't want to interrupt what you're trying to accomplish here. You don't need the G.E.C.K., we don't need it either. But we can keep it out of Lazarus’ hands.”

“What makes you so sure?” Athena challenges.

“Tate and his husband have fought the Enclave. My husband and I have fought the Brotherhood.”

Tate doesn't interrupt, but he's fought the Brotherhood too. That's important to him. They used him. And he got to fight back. Blew up that whole bunker back in the Mojave.

“We don't die easy, Athena. We’ve always succeeded.”

Athena shifts her weight in the Overseer’s chair, “I have to think about it. We can board you for the night. I'll have my answer in the morning.”

A teenage girl opens the office door. She pops her gum in her mouth, “Follow me, then.”

Athena clarifies, “Jana will show you to a room.”

\--

“Amata?”

The room isn't really dark. It never is, in the Vault.

Because it doesn't matter that this isn't 101. It is still...the Vault.

All Vaults are.

Even that one down in the Capital. The one with the sleeper pods? Tate crawled into one, after his pop. That Vault-Tec scientist, Braun. Made his dad into a dog. And he made the fail-safe communists.

Tate doesn't much like thinking about the world before the bombs. There's no point. It's not his world.

But this is, with freshly starched sheets, the smell of lemon, and Amata in the bed across from his. The room is beautifully sterile.

“Tate?” she whispers across the gulf.

“Do you think about what it could have been like...if my dad...if I didn't fuck everything up?”

“Remember when you and me and Butch found those old terminals? The ones that got packed away in storage. And when we turned them on, there were those pictures from before the war?”

Yeah, Tate remembers, “You cried.”

“It was so beautiful. You know,” she laughs again, “I cried the first time I saw the surface for real too. You know what it looks like, when you come out on the hill? Megaton and the Wastes? I thought it was just as gorgeous as the photographs.”

Tate’s chest hurts. He can't sob. Not like this. Not when she's so happy. Whatever haunting he carries, they're just for him. 

“You fucked some stuff up, Tate. You and your dad, and my dad. And Butch. We all fucked up. Some things. But not everything.”

“This world is so, so good, Tate. And so are we.”


	5. Table Salt and Open Wounds

“Man, do you hate me, or what?” Butch lies back against Lis’ couch, his head against one armrest and his knees slightly bent so he fits across the length.

  
Lis is in the kitchen, making box after box of macaroni, using a propane tank to keep the stove going. In one of the other units, someone else is shredding hard Brahmin cheese. Butch can faintly hear the scraping rhythm.

  
Freddie’s in the armchair, Howie sitting up in his lap. The kid keeps gurgling at his dad in the kitchen. No matter what Freddie does to try and comfort the kid, it's just not the same as having their dad.

  
“Why would I hate you?”

  
Butch keeps his eyes on the ceiling. Maybe, a long time ago it was white. But it's not really now. Parts of it are sagging, but overall the apartments are in pretty good shape.

  
“I sort of left you guys in a rough place.”

  
“Yeah, you did,” Freddie gets kinda quiet. “I just...I'm not sure if I loved her at first.”

  
It's weird, how much easier it is for them to actually talk to each other, with Amata and Tate gone. Freddie and Butch were real tight in the Vault. At least for a few years there. Yeah, Butch got sort of distracted wailing on Tate, having Tate fight back twice as hard and with a fuck of a lot more skill. But him and Freddie were still good.

  
“After you left with Tate, I just figured someone had to do that right thing. Right? The Overseer was dead and Amata was alone. No one knew she was, you know, pregnant. And we had no doctor. We read everything, everything to do with pregnancy that Dr. Zhang had left behind. But you know, Tate’s mom...it doesn't exactly inspire confidence.”

  
Butch snickers, “Ya know, he wasn't even a medical doctor? Tate told me. He was some sort of scientist, on the outside. But he had never seen a patient before talking his way into the Vault.”

  
“Guess none of us knew any better...but we at least figured out Amata was probably too far along to use the pills.”

  
Butch stops breathing, his chest tight. Of course. Why wouldn't she consider it? Of course she would have thought of it. Why would she still want the baby after Butch left? Fuck, they could have even thought of it earlier. Neither of them were ready. But he hadn't thought. And Amata never said anything, even though they were confined to the clinic during the uprising.

  
“I think,” Freddie shifts Howie again. The kid is starting to fall asleep. “I think she might have kept her anyway. I don't know. I don't know what you guys talked about.”

  
“We didn't really talk,” Butch admits.

  
Freddie just grunts. Getting up from the armchair, he walks over to deposit Howie in their crib. They're a little big for it now, but it works to keep them in sight and contained while they sleep.

  
“Listen,” Freddie says, still staring at the child. “I'm not gonna say I forgive you. Because in the scheme of things, you didn't fuck me over that bad. I didn't know at first how I felt about her. I just knew that you had both run out on her. And she needed help,” Freddie snickers, “not in a damsel sort of way. But here she was, nineteen and the newly minted Overseer and her best friend and her child’s father had run out on her. So it was survival, maybe. Because I couldn't even start thinking about living on the surface. Not back then.

  
“So I decided to help her. Whatever we needed to do to keep the Vault afloat. And then just...one day I was sure,” Freddie smiles, “didn't even take that long. But I knew I loved her. After that? I couldn't be mad at you or Tate anymore. I was too busy being happy.”

  
Butch nods, “Okay.”

  
“But...fuck. I love Clara okay? I love Clara as much as I love Michael. They are both my children. I'm not…” Freddie chews at the corner of his mouth. “I'm not going to stop you, if you want to have a relationship with Clara. It's sort of unavoidable now. But she's my daughter, Butch. The day she was born, we were both so happy. But…”

  
Butch doesn't say anything. He closes his eyes and just focuses on what Freddie is saying.

  
“Fuck, it would have been easier, for all of us, if she didn't have those big blue eyes, you know? She's not stupid. Everyone in the Vault? They're not stupid either. Everyone. Everyone knew. So, yeah, maybe she didn't know for sure until she saw you. But everyone else in her life has always known.”

  
“It's not just her eyes,” Butch can't help himself.

  
Freddie flops back down in the armchair, “We could have at least had plausible deniability with everything else.”

  
Butch covers his face with both his hands.

  
\--

  
Freddie kicks at Butch’s chair leg. They've eaten a bunch of the mac and cheese, that was a group effort from a bunch of the apartments, for dinner. Lis has gone up to one of the other units, leaving Butch and Freddie alone in his department. Freddie is still on Howie duty.

  
“You wanna hold him?” Freddie asks.

  
If Tate were here, Butch would say no. Right away. Because this is one of those weird things, right? The things that aren't available to them. Tate might freak out about how Butch could have had this. Maybe not with Amata, but with someone else. One of the other women Butch slept with when they were both too stupid to stop hurting each other. Or else, Tate would get real quiet. Because even now, adopting a kid...it's just not possible. They both know it. And Tate doesn't want it. But sometimes, if he's honest, Butch thinks about it. Not seriously. But, like, it's hard to shake your upbringing. It's hard just to wash the Vault away.

  
“Okay,” Butch tries not to seem too bothered by it, holding out his arms to take Howie. Freddie shifts the kid around to settle them down in Butch’s arms.

  
Butch holds the child to his chest. They're mostly still. And they're kind of too big to be held like, all the time. Howie’s not a newborn or anything. Just, they're used to affection and attention.

  
It's been...a long time since Butch last held a child.

  
The Pitt.

  
Fuck.

  
“Here,” Butch hands Howie back to Freddie, pushing out of the room. His chest constricts, that thing he's pushed down so deep, trying to claw its way back to the surface, trying to breath with Butch’s lungs and shout with his voice.

  
Instead of heading for the bathroom, he stumbles through the halls until he's standing outside. He hopes the open air will make the thing inside him flee.

  
His lungs feel like they're collapsing. No matter how much he sucks down hair, it's not enough, light-headed and dizzy. It's been years. Fucking years since then. Butch hasn't thought about it in years, fucking years. Holding Marie against his chest, covering her with his jacket. Tate stood at his side, choking. Tate keep choking like he was going to puke. They'd almost changed their minds when Marie garbled in Butch’s arms.

  
Butch hears the door close behind him. He whips his head around, but it's only Freddie. Howie is nowhere to be seen.

  
Freddie has his jacket on, not the Tunnel Snake one, he left Clara with that. But it's kind of similar, dark leather and a high collar that swallows up his neck. Butch pulls out his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, offering one to Freddie.

  
“Don't tell Amata.”

  
Butch responds, “She’ll know anyway.”

  
Freddie just shrugs his shoulders, “We should make ourselves useful.” He doesn't push on Butch’s weird behavior. Butch almost wishes that he would, because he's got a lot of confessions to make. They've just got to get the ball rolling.

  
“What do you have in mind?”

  
“Let's go talk to the Goats,” Freddie passes Butch his pack.

  
Butch keeps his cigarette between his lips as he double checks his supplies. Putting his laser pistol on his hip, he realizes, kinda, that this might be a bad idea. Freddie and he aren't the most charming people. But they can bluff through a little. And Freddie wouldn't be suggesting it if he didn't think he stood a chance.

  
“Alright,” Butch agrees.

  
Beaming, Freddie gestures towards the street. “This way.”

  
They head towards the main sprawl of the campus. While they might be losing light fast, the streetlights actually click on when dusk finally settles in.

  
“I don't get it either, man,” Freddie admits, looking up at the lit lamps.

  
Butch pulls another cigarette, giving one to Freddie too. “So this gang is all men?”

  
“Yeah,” Freddie says. “So, Lis transferred campuses at like, shit, eight or nine years old? That's why he knows both sides. There's a tunnel between the two Vaults. It was supposed to be used for, you know uh. ‘Population control.’”

  
“So the guys and girls would meet up to fuck?” Butch clarifies.

  
“Yeah. It was supposed to be a single gender environment experiment. Something like that. But to get kids, Vault-Tec needed a way to get them to fuck. So you'd pull a number, get a fuck-buddy. Then the kids were supposed to transfer Vaults after they were weaned.”

  
“I assume the surface raider gangs were not part of the plan?”

  
“Nah,” Freddie continues, “the experiment fell apart pretty quickly. Vault-Tec picked the Overseers from the student population, you know, the colleges that sat on top of the Vaults? Turned out they were friends, played the scientists all along. Lis isn't sure of all the details. That was a long time ago. But while they kept the populations mostly separate, they abandoned the experiment. Kids got to tell the adults, and I'm using ‘adult’ loosely here, because a lot of people leave the Vault at like, twenty-two, what gender they were. And that's how they shuffled them around.”

  
They come to the edge of raider territory. Butch is used to running in shooting, or Tate’s particular brand of bargaining for safe passage. But Freddie just curls his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hey! We’re here to talk!” His voice bounces off the stone buildings on either side.

  
A voice shouts back through a megaphone, “Who the fuck are you?”

  
Freddie doesn't hesitate to respond, “We’re cool!”

  
We're cool.

  
We’re fucking cool.

  
Negotiations are going great. There's no way this could possibly go wrong.

  
But within a couple of minutes, the wood and wire gate in front of them opens. Butch expects to see a hardened raider, dressed in leather and spikes and smelling of grain alcohol.

  
Instead it's a man, about their age, with slicked back hair, in a button down shirt and khaki trousers. At least he has a gash that starts under his hairline, running across his face before disappearing under his collar, a Wasteland souvenir if Butch ever saw one.

  
“Are you trader-cool or what?” he asks.

  
“Nah,” Freddie admits, “we just want to talk about getting into 33.”

  
“You're kind of old for the Vault,” he looks from Freddie to Butch and back again.

  
“We’ve got a lot to talk about. Trust me,” Freddie assures.

  
The man introduces himself as Narin, asking for their weapons. Butch isn't too keen about giving up his gun, but at least he still has a knife in his pack, if things get too dicey.

  
On the other side of the door is the open quad. All the grass is gone, but Butch can still make out the layout of the grounds, cut through with sidewalks and beaten trails that follow the shortest distances between buildings.

  
There's a pretty big firepit that’s going strong. A bunch of men dressed fairly smartly hovering around. They're roasting a bunch of birds over the fire. Some smaller animals too. Some of the men lean against each other for support. Others sit in desk chairs, scavenged from the nearby academic buildings.

  
“Come on,” Narin encourages, “we’ll talk.”

  
They end up sitting on some fallen logs arranged into a circle. Too far to feel the fire, they're also out of easy earshot of the other ‘raiders.’ Butch can't see a damn vicious thing about one of them. They all look soft and weirdly pastel.

  
“What business do you have with 33?”

  
“We’re friends with Lis, you know him?” Freddie name drops. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a sealed bottle of scotch. Holding the bottle around the neck, he sways it back and forth in front of Narin, “wanna take a go?”

  
Well, that's one way to break the ice.

  
“Hold up,” Narin scrambles to the firepit, coming back quickly with three, mismatched glasses. He hands the coffee mug to Freddie, the green plastic cup to Butch, and keeps the clear glass tumbler for himself.

  
Smiling, Freddie uncaps the bottle. Butch hasn't drunk liquor in...a long time. When he was a teenager, back in the Vault, yeah. He'd be pilfering vodka and shit from his mom all the time. Pouring it into his little steal flask and tucking it against his back where she wouldn't see, held in place by his belt.

  
And when he first got out of the Vault too...Tate was drinking pretty heavily. His dad had just died. Tate really didn't drink liquor in the Vault, like at all. Always beer. But Butch quit with the liquor too. Because after awhile, he started thinking like him and Tate weren't gonna die so easy. And Butch wanted to be present. For all of it. All of Tate’s stupid fucking tantrums and his not-even half-assed plots and the way his breath hitches when Butch fucks him. The way his forehead creases in concentration when he fucks Butch. Butch wanted to keep seeing and hearing and feeling all those things, day after day, in beautifully horrifying clarity.

  
So yeah, while he still drinks beer, Butch tries to avoid the harder stuff. Tries to stay in line. But Freddie goes ahead and pours some into Butch’s cup. And it ain't like he has to drink it. He can just put the cup to his mouth and smile around it. Look polite.

  
That's totally Butch’s intention, too. So he puts the plastic cup between his teeth while Narin and Freddie talk like old friends. Freddie’s sort of nervous at first, but by the third shot of scotch he's more relaxed.

  
And it's okay the Butch has had two helpings of liquor. But just in case, he lights up a cigarette instead to keep his mouth busy.

  
“We’re not on friendly terms with anyone from Lazarus. At least, not as far as I know,” Narin clarifies. “I can get you an audience with the Overseer, but he doesn't like people wasting his time.”

  
Freddie nods enthusiastically, “That's all we really need.”

  
Narin gets up, keeping his glass in one hand, “Come on.”

  
For some reason it never crossed Butch’s mind that they'd be talking with the Overseer tonight.

  
Butch scrambles after Freddie and Narin, keeping his plastic cup. He drains what little is left. That's three shots total. He feels okay.

  
Narin leads them to a smaller building, the old concert hall. This area off the quad is mostly empty. Too far away from the fires to be really attractive.

  
It takes a good deal of force to get the heavy wooden doors open. Ages ago, before the bombs, they were painted red, with shiny, brass finishings. Now they're tarnished and sticky.

  
The inside of the hall looks grander than Butch expected. A bunch of the red-cushioned seats are torn out of the rows, and all the fabrics are bleached by light and age, but the stage itself is large and empty, the curtains plush velvet. The balcony up above is vacant, but the seats look in better condition.

  
Narin takes them around the corner to a spiral staircase leading down. It's incredibly narrow, winding tightly around the support beam. One by one they descend into the basement of the theatre.

  
And there it is. The heavy, imposing Vault door. “33” stamped on it in big, yellow type. Next to the door is a console. Narin plugs his Pipboy in and shoves a button. “Hey, Griffon? You around?”

  
A staticy voice calls back, “Kinda?”

  
“There are a couple of guys around to talk to ya.”

  
Freddie steps forward, repeating to Griffon what he's already told to Narin. About Lazarus and the G.E.C.K. And their intentions being good. Freddie really lays the Boy Scout routine on thick, especially for a guy more than halfway to drunk. Freddie was always that type, though. Even as a kid. He was good. Just wanted to make things better. Kinda a follower, not a leader. But, looking back on it, they all were.

  
Griffon’s voice comes back on and Butch swears he sounds scared. Like maybe Freddie has him on the ropes, “I'd really love to let you in...but I can't man, I can't.”

  
There's something about Griffon’s voice that sets Butch right on edge. It's not Freddie who has got him nervous. It's not Freddie at all. There's a waver to Griffon’s tone, desperation. Griffon’s not alone.

  
Butch steps next to Freddie, taking over the comm line, “We’ll just go then. If that's what you want?”

  
“Yeah,” Griffon says, “yeah, just go.”

  
Butch takes his finger off the button. “He's not alone in there.”

  
“Of course not,” Narin says, “there's a whole vault full of people.”

  
Butch stares at the console, “How old is Griffon?”

  
Narin thinks for a moment, “Probably almost nineteen now? I think, nineteen in March?”

  
“Is there any way into the Vault other than this one?”

  
“Butch?” Freddie questions.

  
Butch hadn't even realized how strained his voice is, how panic is creeping into his face too. “He's not alone. He's being held hostage.”

  
Realization spreads out across Freddie’s features, his eyes getting wide and jaw slack, “Why, why do you think that?”

  
“He kept turning off the comms in between sentences. Why the fuck would he do that, leaving them open would be easier.”

  
“Maybe he's getting his dick sucked?” Freddie says.

  
“Then he wouldn't pick up at all,” Butch stops arguing with Freddie, “Nerin, another door?”

  
Nerin presumably knows Griffon better than either of them. Maybe Butch is reading too much into things, but he doesn't think he is. When Nerin says, “Follow me,” Butch is more sure than ever that he's read this right.

  
They head back out of the music hall, cutting across the quad to a old dormitory they've let fall into disuse. Once inside, Nerin pulls a loop of keys from his belt, unlocking the door that will lead them down.

  
The basement is filled with old terminals, lined up in rows. It's an old computer lab or something for student use. At the back of the room is a closet, filled with ancient networking equipment. The lights are still on, twinkling in the dusky darkness of the closet. On the floor, there's a wooden door that Nerin pulls open. Under that, a wheel to turn to open the metal hatch down to the vault.

  
“The three of us should go together,” Nerin says, pulling a 10mm off his hip.

  
“You grow up down there?” Butch asks.

  
“Yeah, of course. Graduated when I was twenty-two. Griffon is my little brother.”

  
Butch doesn't know if that's literal or not, given the way Vaults are and all. Nerin jumps down first, catching himself on the iron ladder before he hits the bottom.

  
The tunnel down is dark, lit by exposed bulbs hanging from the single copper pipe running along the ceiling. Nerin leads the way, then Butch, then Freddie. The tunnel, the tunnel reminds him of 101, the path from the Vault door, out to the side of the hill. Butch wasn't scared then, when he left the Vault. Because Tate’s shaky hand was in his, squeezing down as they got closer to the sun.

  
But, he thinks about when Tate ran down the tunnel first. Months before Butch joined him. Because when Butch crawled out into the Wasteland that first time, Tate’s solid presence next to him, messages dated 17-8-77 clicked through on his Pipboy.

  
130758 > 271257: Butch, help.  
130758 > 271257: Come, please, I'm outside.  
130758 > 271257: Butch, I love you.

  
But what could he with that information on 10-12-77? Pretend it didn't happen? When he started seeing bruises across Tate’s neck and chest and hips and thighs. Bruises left by other men. Butch just went on, like the messages hadn't gotten stuck in limbo, slithering into his Pipboy once he got busted out.

  
Nerin makes it to the next sealed door. This one has “33” painted on it too. “I don't have a key to this one either,” Nerin admits. “But maybe someone will let us in.”

  
Butch pushes Nerin aside, looking for an access port. There's one in a panel, just to the left of the door. He fishes out his Pipboy cable from his pack, plugging one end into his wrist and the other into the panel. He's not certain this will work, but he's got enough experience hacking Vault-Tec systems, that he'd put money on himself.

  
“Don't know how long this will take me,” Butch admits, using his right hand to operate the dial. It's not exactly a comfortable position to hold, so he hopes he can hack this fast.

  
Freddie and Nerin keep quiet while Butch works the hack. Three correct positions, then four. He scans through the choices, trying to work out the pattern. If he fails, that's okay, he can always re-initiate the sequence. But that might alert whoever is inside.

  
Butch exhales when the hack comes out clean, the maglocks on the door disengaging. He lets Nerin open the door and step inside first.

  
They're in the reactor level. Nerin seems to know where they're headed. “Stay out of sight,” Nerin says, as if Butch was about to go barreling in.

  
He ain't much for stealth, but it's not like he's going to draw attention on purpose. Tate likes grabbing up hostiles quick and bringing them down fast. So yeah, Butch is maybe used to dealing with combat that way. But he can be quiet too.

  
Well, he can try.

  
It's late enough that most everyone is in their quarters, the halls empty. They come up from the reactor level, onto the residential floor. Nerin doesn't say anything, keeping his footsteps light as they move forward, over to the next staircase.

  
Butch realizes that he doesn't have his gun. Fuck. Nerin took it once they got on campus. Freddie doesn't have his either. So they're relying on Nerin’s little pistol, and Butch’s knife, and whatever Freddie might have shoved down his pants. Butch can do hand to hand, probably better than most, because his sparring partner is always Tate, who is a fucking legend with his fists. So it don't matter Butch mostly gets his ass handed to him when he fights Tate, except those times Tate loses on purpose, because the idea all along was to end up with Butch’s cock up his ass.

  
Nerin has them wait around a corner while listening for fading footsteps up ahead. Signaling for them to movie, Nerin has them book it for the Overseer’s office. They might be too loud, their boots stomping against steel floors. But this is the final push.

  
“Fuck,” Nerin curses when he finds the door locked. Vainly, he presses his Pipboy to the keypad, but his card has been deactivated..

  
Butch’s blood is pumping between his ears, drowning out the sound of Freddie and Nerin breathing. There's nowhere to plug in his Pipboy. He could reroute the keycard in his Pipboy to work on the scanner, but he'd need access to security to do that.

  
He swallows, “We’re going to have to knock,” he realizes.

  
“If there really is someone in there with Griffon,” Freddie starts.

  
“It's either that or I bypass the doors in Security. But I don't think we have time for that.” Butch doesn't wait, raising his fist to the door and slamming it down.

  
They can all hear it, chatter behind the door. Two voices, neither of them sound much like Griffon. Nerin draws his gun. Butch stays in front of the door. He’ll tackle whoever opens it first.

  
It's Griffon who slides the door open. But Butch is already primed to pounce. Getting low, he hits Griffon at his hips. He's short and sturdy, but Butch is used to that. Knocking Griffon to the floor works out alright, because it means that Nerin can aim right at one of the intruders. It also scares the shit out of everyone involved. Gives Butch enough time to scramble to his feet and punch the one Nerin doesn't have a gun on square in the stomach.

  
“SON OF A BITCH!” she screams. At least, Butch thinks it's a she. Hard to tell under the helmet and armor.

  
“Griffon! What's going on?” Nerin shouts.

  
Griffon is still wheezing on the floor, “I don't know! I don't know!”

  
Butch has got the woman wrapped up pretty tightly, holding her arms in place and kneeing her in the back. The other intruder doesn't move, keeping their hands to their sides.

  
“Who are you?” Butch demands.

  
The second intruder slowly brings their hands to their helmet, pulling it off to reveal their face. He's a man in his early forties, hair graying thickly on both sides, “We’re scientists,” he says as an offering. “We don't have combat skills.”

  
“That's not what you told me an hour ago!” Griffon whines, still curled up on the floor.

  
One of those is a lie. Butch finds out which one when the woman in his arms twists out of his grip, spinning around and re-centering her weight. She manages to flip Butch over, his back hitting the floor, before Nerin shoots her in the shoulder.

  
The man pulls a gun from his hip, faster than Nerin can ready his next shot. All Nerin and Freddie can do is dodge out of the way, hiding behind the wall. Butch’s back fucking hurts, but he fights dirty, kicking at the man’s legs, hard enough that he stumbles.

  
Butch doesn't want to kill him, he doesn't. But the woman is screaming and the man is trying to aim at him and the only thing he can hear clearly is, “Survive.”

  
So Butch kicks out again, and when the man falls to the floor, he grabs him by either side of his head and twists. Fuck. Fuck.

  
The woman. The woman is still alive. She's holding her shoulder. She's not screaming anymore. But she starts to run. Freddie gets in her way. But he's no good at fighting, even though he's plenty tall.

  
She lays Freddie out, so quick. Butch doesn't even notice at first. He's on his feet, ready to chase, when he sees Freddie’s hands at his throat. Blood bubbles up from between his fingers.

  
No. No. No.

  
Butch forgets all about the woman. He watches Freddie crumple towards the ground. Going for his pack, he grabs up the stimpaks, two of them. Just two. He shoves one of them into the first piece of Freddie’s exposed neck that he can find.

  
Butch is shouting, shouting.

  
Someone better hear. They need the doctor. Where is the Vault doctor?

  
Everyone in the Vault is like, under twenty-one, right? But they have a doctor?

  
Freddie’s hands go lax, his eyes rolling back into his skull.

  
If not a doctor, at least more stims.

  
Now able to pull Freddie’s hands away, Butch doesn't even register the blood. Though his hands are slippery with it. He aims the needle of the second stim into the gaping hole at Freddie’s neck. Shooting the medication in, Butch can at least see the wound starting to close at the edges. It won't be enough. It won't.

  
A pair of hands pulls Butch away.

  
The doctor. He's young, maybe sixteen, but he moves with clinical efficiency, yelling at someone else that they need the stretcher.

  
Butch falls back against the side of the Overseer’s desk, running shaking hands down his face. He smells Freddie’s blood, strong in his nostrils. They've fucked up. They've fucked up.


	6. I'm an Author and You're an Editor and We'll Never Write Pen to Pen

Amata wakes Tate with a gentle press to his shoulder, “Do you need more sleep?” Her voice is filled with soft, blooming concern, seeping into the spaces between Tate’s sheets.

Tate cracks open his eyes. She's already dressed for the day. Her armor is all in place and her curly hair fanned out behind her head, trying to break free of her ponytail.

“No,” Tate assures her, “I can get up.”

But his arm and legs feel like lead. His head spins when he sits up. He could have sworn he was getting better, well, as good as he can get, but this morning he feels like shit.

Amata frowns, standing up from the bedside. “I can go talk to Athena alone. Maybe that will be better. Go ahead and get dressed.”

Tate doesn't insist that she waits.

They have an ensuite bathroom, all stainless steel everything. Tate manages to shuck his tee and boxers, climbing under the warm shower spray. Water pressure here is better than anything he's had in a long time. The hotel in Vegas, Lucky 38 or whatever, that was nicer. But not by much.

The hot water soothes his ache a little, working tension from his shoulders and back. He holds his head under the spray, though he knows full well his hair won't dry in any reasonable amount of time. Still, the water running down his neck, dribbling over his spine, feels good. Washing with the Vault-Tec soap reminds him of being sixteen. All of this is like a dream.

His arm is shaking by the time he thinks to turn off the spray. The towels are the same too. Clean but sort of hard. Tate dries off quickly. He's lost track of time.

Neither of them anticipated being gone this long, so Tate doesn't really have a change of clothes. He checks the dresser drawer in the room, pulling out a stranger’s undershirt. It smells clean, so he puts it on. He's got extra socks and underwear already. But he's not putting on a fucking vault suit. So it's gotta be his sticky armor. He grabs his left arm, snapping it into place before pulling on his armor.

The door slides open, Amata entering. She clearly has no problems with the vault suits. Weird, to see 85 over her heart instead of 101.

Grabbing up her bag from her bed she says, “We can take the G.E.C.K. Let's get moving. Freddie and Butch are probably worried.”

Tate runs his fingers through his still-wet hair. Yeah. Reaching for his bag, he pulls out his Pipboy. He turns the dial, trying to shoot a message off to Butch. Inside the Vault, he's not sure it will actually get through at all. But maybe it will? And there's no harm trying.

130758 > 271257: Hey, we’re alright. Going after the G.E.C.K. now. Love you.

Tate’s about to shove the Pipboy back into his pack when the screen lights up again.

UNDELIVERABLE

Well, if they hurry up with the G.E.C.K., that's less time Butch and Freddie will spend worrying.

Amata waits for him by the door while he pulls on his boots, “Where are we headed?”

“The G.E.C.K. is in storage. At least, that's what Athena thinks. But before she was born they sealed off that sector after a radiation leak.” They walk down the hall side by side. 

Passing by two girls in their early teens, Tate keeps his eyes straight ahead. He still manages to catch the way they gawk at him, but they're too polite to say anything. “Athena tell them we’re here?” he asks under his breath, once the girls are gone. 

“I think she sent out an announcement, yes. So we wouldn't be bothered.” Amata stops in front of a sealed door. The labeling has been removed. Pressing her Pipboy to the lock, they wait as the hydraulics disengage. “It should autolock behind us,” Amata slips in first. 

When the door closes, they're submerged into semi-darkness. Tate pulls his Pipboy back out to flick on the light. Amata does the same at her wrist. They pass a bottle of rad-x between them. Tate swallows his pill dry before Amata can hand him water. 

They know Vaults. Every child who grows up underground knows. Lily, the supermutant who called Butch, “Jimmy,” and sometimes Tate was “Jimmy” too, she knew Vaults, even though it had been a long time since she was human, and even longer since she was a child. 

Even in the dim light of their Pipboys, they can navigate the tunnels. They're always the same size, the same logic. Their feet sound the same against the floor. Vault-Tec built everything to spec.

When they hit the second door, their Geiger counters start to buzz. Amata keys them through.

Tate can hear it, whatever it is, skittering in the dark. He doesn't breathe a word. Amata must hear it too, because she goes quiet, refusing to cross the threshold.

Tate shoves his Pipboy away, he’ll need his fists ready for this. Swapping the Pipboy for his Power Fist, they’ll just have to make due with less light. At least in this room, emergency lighting runs along the edges of the room. This has got to be storage.

Amata nods and Tate steps in first, trying to minimize his noise. Amata draws her pistol from her belt. The rifle won't be much use here. Now that they've heard whatever lives here, they're not going to be ambushed. But there's also no guarantee that they're going to see it before it strikes. 

Tate has an idea. He has no idea if Amata will like it. But, he figures, it's better than waiting forever. 

“FUCKING FIGHT ME YOU FUCKER!” he yells. 

Amata hisses, “What the fuck, Tate? You fucking fuck.”

Tate’s plan works, though, and the creature from the dark lunges forward, jumping down from atop a stack of crates and taking Tate straight to the ground. His head slams against the metal floor. But it's okay. Whatever this is, Tate is pretty convinced that he's tougher. 

He only sees the beast in snatches, as Amata tries to aim her pistol and its skin catches the shoddy lighting. Whatever it is, it's bigger and heavier than Tate, but that's never stopped him in the past. 

Rolling his weight to one side, he tries to get its back to face Amata, give her a target that's plenty big.

“Shoot!” Tate yells, keeping his arms wrapped around its torso. 

Whatever it is now, Tate thinks it might have been human before, given its general proportions. But it's just so strong and heavy and just fucking big. Bigger than any ghoul Tate has ever fought and sturdier too. His arms and core strain as he tries to hold the fucking thing still so Amata can shoot it. 

After the first shot, the thing screams, loud and harsh and right in Tate’s face, covering him with wet, thick spittle. The front of Tate’s armor is warm, blood. Oh fuck, the bullet went all the way through the fucker. But he doesn't feel in pain. So his leather chest piece must have been just enough to stop it.

Injured, but not dead, the attacker opens its mouth wide again, biting down on Tate’s face, over his nose, mouth, and chin. 

Tate tries to scream in response, but nothing seems to move right. And fuck, fuck. It's like he's suffocating. He's going to drown. Dimly he can hear Amata screaming too, unloading into the mutated creature. But it's not enough. It's not enough and the thing isn't dead yet. Tate can still hold on, though his muscles burn.

Amata reloads, emptying her pistol again. Finally the monster starts to slacken, it's teeth pulling back out of Tate’s face. Once he's loose, Tate scrambles away, looking for his pack.

“Tate! Tate,” Amata drops to the floor next to him, taking his face between her hands. 

“Stims,” he garbbles. Nothing feels right. His mouth is filling up with blood. 

Amata releases him, looking through her bag, “It's not as bad as I thought,” she says. But her hands are shaking. 

Shooting Tate in the jaw, she only empties half the syringe, pricking him a second time in the forehead to finish it off. “You're swelling up, but I don't actually think it broke the skin.” 

It sure as fucking hell felt like it broke the skin, all sharp teeth puncturing through, locking Tate in place. But Amata wouldn't lie about that, right? Tate spits blood onto the floor. 

As the stims do their job, Tate’s breathing evens out. He waits for the warm, tingling sensation to fade before touching his jaw, running his finger over his nose. Amata was right, the skin isn't punctured. Even with the stims, his face would be bloody if it actually fucked him up that bad. “What the fuck is it?” 

Amata turns around, looking back at the creature. They both get up off the floor to check. Tate grabs his Pipboy for extra light. 

Far as Tate can make out, it is human shaped. So maybe it was a ghoul. Two arms, two legs, a torso. But the head is fucking weird. Like a giant suction cup where its face should be, open and angry red, gaping. Tate feels sick just looking at it.

“Ghoul?” Amata asks. 

Tate doesn't want to think about it anymore, because all he can feel is that mouth around his face, trying to tear him open and failing. 

“Let's find the G.E.C.K.”

They leave the fucked up monster there, starting to sort through the crates. 

\-- 

It takes them hours, prying open every sealed box and rifling around inside. Tate knows roughly what it is they're looking for. He's seen a G.E.C.K. before, obviously. And Amata has seen drawings, in the Overseer’s manuals, even though 101 never had one. 

“Why not?” Tate asks, unlatching a metal carrying case. It looks promising, but it's just filled with a high-end drill set. He closes up the box and adds it to the pile of duds.

Amata’s hair is sticking up in all directions. He wants to smooth it back down. “Since we were never supposed to open, Vault-Tec didn't supply us with one. No need, when your population isn't going to go up and repopulate.”

“Sounds like Vault-Tec had a lot of shitty plans.” 

Amata shrugs, “you might know better than me. I haven't really...I don't make a habit of this. Going back into Vaults...we went into 81, up in the Commonwealth? Were you ever there?” 

Tate shakes his head, “No. I mean, we were pretty focused on finding you. We went to Diamond City, and then to Goodneighbor. And from Goodneighbor they told us to head South. We did that until we got you guys on the radio.” 

Amata chews on her lip, “Eighty-one is where we met Curie. There was this little boy there. Austin. He was so sick.”

“Did you save him?” Tate almost doesn't want to ask, with the way Amata’s eyes stay fixed on her hands, still shoved inside another dead end box. 

“Yeah, but...Tate, do you ever think...it’s weird right? How much we can change other people’s lives? Like...everyone in 101 became my responsibility, overnight. And then Freddie and I, we just wanted to trade. We needed water and ammunition. And it took us to the strangest places. We met the strangest people.” 

Tate can't help but laugh, “Fuck, you know, Amata. It's kind of hard for me to not think about how many people’s lives I've fucked up at this point.” 

“That's not what I mean!” she insists, “Not exactly. Freddie and I, we’ve done a lot of good. And I know you and Butch have too. Just, sometimes, I wonder if we were destined for this. Like the Vault was supposed to open for us. So we could do these things.” 

Tate doesn't like how that sounds. He doesn't fucking like it one bit. Because the only thing he really has is this idea that his fucked up actions are his own. That his mistakes belong to him. And he hates them, he hates them so much because yeah, sometimes, maybe, he was put into impossible situations. Circumstances where every single option was fucked. But he sure as fuck doesn't want it to be because some higher power is fucking with him. And he doesn't want Amata to believe that shit either. Because she might like it now, but she sure as fuck isn't going to like it later. 

“Out West, there's this desert, real far. You remember, from the old maps, Ne-va-da,” Tate sounds it out real slow.

“Yeah,” Amata responds. 

“We were there for awhile. There was a man, called himself Caesar. Like that Roman.”

Amata’s face is blank. Right, maybe it was Arcade who told them about Caesar, the real Cassar, and not Mr. Brock, “He led this group of Tribals, Raiders, whatever, there's no difference. Every woman they had, every single one under Caesar’s banner, his protection, was a slave.” 

“What?” Amata’s eyes narrow, “why are you telling me this, Tate?”

“Because, we killed Caesar, in his own tent. We killed his soldiers and his Legate and this fucking asshole who wore a fucking wolf corpse on his head. I still don't know what that guy’s problem was,” Tate shakes his head, “I can't believe in a world where that was meant to happen, Amata. Where all those people died because some asshole thought he knew better than everyone else. Where half the population was kept in slavery. I can't believe that was just waiting around for me and Butch to go fucking fix it.” Tate admits, “I wouldn't want to live in that world. I'd rather everything just be this fucked up on accident.” 

Amata doesn't say anything. She just moves on to the next box. 

\-- 

They find the G.E.C.K., finally, but not in any of the boxes. Under all the storage crates there's a hatch, and down the hatch, more storage. Tate finds the right case and hoists it up for Amata to grab. At least they can get the fuck out of here. 

Before they go, they take one more look at the corpse. Tate’s less convinced now that it was ever human. But Tate’s seen a lot of weird shit in the last ten years, and none of that shit looks like this shit. The Wasteland always seems ready to fucking top itself. 

There's nothing to do here, so they go ahead and leave storage, popping Radaway as they leave. The pills aren't as effective at the IV drips of the stuff, but that’ll have to wait. Tate can already feel that the pill dosage won't be quite enough. He's aching and nauseous. 

The doors don't give them any trouble on the way out and they don't encounter any more of the suction monsters. Tate's not entirely sure there are more of them. But mutants like that rarely are unique occurrences. 

Only once they're back in the Vault hallway does Tate breathe easy again. Now that they're in the light, he can get a better idea of what happened to him.

The front of his armor is covered in a clear slime, which he already knew but was trying not to think about. But under it, his dark-brown armor is starting to discolor, which he didn't know about. Gingerly he touches his fingers to his face.

“It's alright,” Amata smooths her hand across his cheek, “You're bruised pretty badly, but that's it.” 

Tate wants to go check, but there are no men’s bathrooms on the hall, right. And Amata leads them straight back to the Overseer. The sooner they wrap this up the better.

Athena is in her office, feet propped up on the desk. When Amata and Tate come in, she hurries to straighten herself out. “Did you find it?” she asks. 

Amata tells Tate to go ahead and show her. G.E.C.K.s aren't much to look at, though. He opens up the case on her desk, showing her the contents. It all looks very ordinary, industrial grey and tan, like most everything else Vault-Tec either made themselves or outsourced.

“So this was meant to rebuild the world?” Athena asks.

“Something like that.”

Athena frowns, “I don't know. I've always just been so confused about what Vault-Tec wanted with us. I chalked it up to the fact we abandoned our experiment so early on.” She looks up from the G.E.C.K. to ask Amata, “When did you abandon your experiment?”

Amata hesitates. 

“Twenty-two seventy-seven,” Tate supplies, “Amata was the one who stopped it.” 

Athena smiles, “That's so brave of you.” 

Amata snickers, “No, I mean...it's ridiculous that the Overseers before me didn't...that my dad…” her eyes flick over to Tate, “our dads.” 

Shaking her head, Athena assures, “That only makes you more remarkable. That you were the one who saw a better life for the people in your Vault.” 

“Yeah,” Amata concedes, but she doesn't look happy about it. 

\-- 

They make it back to the apartments well before dinner time. Through an open window on the second floor, Tate can see a handful of residents gathered up in one of the living rooms. They're laughing, shouting. Even though it's cold, they keep their windows open.

Tate knocks on the door, not sure who will actually hear them. When no one comes, be backs up so he can yell to the crowd upstairs. 

“Hey! It's us, the 101 kids!” It only occurs to him belatedly that none of them are really kids anymore. 

“Coming!” someone shouts. 

A woman throws open the door for them. She says her name is Justine and then runs back up the stairs to join the group. Tate and Amata follow her at a more reasonable pace. 

Ducking his head into Lis’ apartment, Tate makes sure Butch and Freddie aren't in there. But they must be upstairs with everyone else. 

In the upstairs apartment, most of the residents are playing board games and drinking. No one looks over thirty-five. There's a woman already passed out on the couch. Someone’s drawn crude pictures on her face, but otherwise she looks really peaceful.

Tate doesn't see Butch or Freddie anywhere, but Lis is in one corner, smiling and talking with another man. 

“Hey,” Tate interrupts because, yeah, now he's starting to worry. Although there's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Butch and Freddie aren't here. He'd sure as fuck like to hear it. “Where are the guys?”

Lis looks away from his conversation partner, “Oh, they headed over to 85 yesterday. Hasn't even been twenty-four hours. But Freddie said they were going to make themselves useful. They’ll fit in over there just fine.”

Tate nods, because he's not even sure what that means. But at least that's an explanation. He trusts Butch can handle himself. He doesn't know about Freddie, but Tate sort of thinks Butch can handle Freddie too.

“Don't worry about it,” Lis assures, running his hand down Tate’s arm. “The Goats take pretty well to guys who hold their ground. They're not as violent as they want people to think they are.” 

“You ever run with them?” Tate asks. 

Lis looks away, “Yeah, but not for awhile now. Almost everyone does when they leave 33, though.” His face brightens, “You should play.” 

Tate doesn't feel much like playing kids’ games with a bunch of adults, (and a couple of actual kids too). And he's sort of glad that even after all these years, he and Amata can read each other, because she doesn't look much like playing either. He does swipe two beers before they head out. 

Slipping back outside, Tate figures the chatter upstairs isn't so bad, now that they're not it the same room as it. He and Amata end up on the front steps, each with a beer in hand, the G.E.C.K. case wedged between them. An entire new world in a box. That was the promise. But the last time Tate grabbed one of these, it only made things worse. Fuck, they're still dealing with the fallout. 

They finish their beers. They watch the sun go down. But still no Butch, no Freddie. 

Amata doesn't say she's worried. She just holds the neck of her beer bottle real tight in her fist. Wringing it, over and over. Inside, the noise has quieted down. 

They share a candy bar for dinner, which isn't much. It's really not enough. But Tate doesn't think that he can stomach anything more.

“I'm gonna go look for them,” Tate announces. “Thirty-three is close, right?” 

“Just down the hill. I can go with you.” 

“No,” Tate stops her. “Someone has to watch the G.E.C.K. And if something has happened, we can't walk into a trap with it.” 

Amata frowns, “You're right,” she presses her palm to her forehead. “Just, don't take long, okay?” 

As if that's something Tate has control over. But he says he’ll find them. Even though they're supposed to pretend nothing is really wrong.


	7. Not as Bad as You Think You Are

271257 > 130758: tate i need help  
271257 > 130758: dont tell amata

UNDELIVERABLE

Right, the Vault shielding. This has never worked well. But Butch keeps typing.

271257 > 130758: i think i fucked up  
271257 > 130758: i know it

UNDELIVERABLE

Freddie is in the clinic, hooked up to a mess of tubes to help him breathe, to pump blood back into him, to keep his temperature up. Machines are doing everything it takes to keep Freddie a person, rather than just a hunk of warm meat.

Trevor, the doctor with short cropped hair and a baby face (he is a baby, he's 17) has Freddie behind glass. Freddie’s throat is stitching back up now.

Trevor says Butch did the right thing, administering stimpaks as soon as possible to stem the bleeding. Butch’s quick action probably saved Freddie’s life. Problem is, his neck still ended up shit. Torn up and sealing along the wrong axis, skin mixed in with more delicate internal tissues.

So they had to cut him open again, realign the pieces of his shredded neck. Trevor finished surgery an hour ago, dark purple bags under his eyes. He told Butch that Freddie needs time to recover. And he was going the fuck to bed.

Butch sits in the doctor’s chair, staring at the blank terminal screen. It's the middle of the night, and other than Freddie, he's alone.

It's just something to do with his hands while he waits. The hack doesn't take any time at all. 

Tate’s dad’s records kept Butch company for awhile, back when Tate was gone and nothing was solid.

Butch doesn't know any of the names from Vault 33. Not really. But he scans through two hundred years of files. All meticulously kept. From looking at people’s records, he figures it was less than twenty years before the Vault-Tec experiment was abandoned. Because in 2095 there's a birth record. In 2096, there are two.

Switching to more recent entries, he looks for names he recognizes. Lis is probably Lis Sullivan, born 2260 in Vault 85. Transferred to 33 in ‘68. Left the system in ‘81. There's a note that the doctor before Trevor knew when Howie was born, and that Lis refused to induct the infant into either Vault.

Butch looks at that batch of files next, kids born on the surface, then taken back to the Vault. Their parents never join them. They just hand off their babies to literal children to raise below ground while they fuck off.

Butch’s stomach churns. Yeah, because he was so fucking different.

Logging out of the computer, Butch goes back to his wrist.

271257 > 130758: i miss you

He waits for the system alert that his message failed.

130758 > 271257: Can you come tell this asshole to let me into the vault?

Butch scrambles to his feet. Vaults are vaults, he can navigate the halls without looking up from his wrist.

271257 > 130758: which entrance?   
130758 > 271257: Side door. Heard that's the only one they open?

Butch detours towards the reactor level, retracing his steps from earlier. He breaks into a jog, ignoring the strange look he gets from a single ‘guard’ patrolling the hall. Guy looks maybe sixteen at most.

Griffon stands in front of the door, peeking through the tiny ballistic glass window. “I told you, I can't help you,” Griffon whines. “We have enough of a security problem already.”

“Listen here, pipsqueak. I'm givin’ you ten seconds to open this fucking door before I-”

“-Before you what, Tate?” Butch interrupts. He doesn't know what Tate’s got planned, but it's probably not anything fucking useful.

Griffon whips his head around, “You know this guy?”

“Unfortunately,” Butch deadpans, “he’s my husband.”

Frowning, Griffon asks, “Should I let him in or nah?”

“Yeah, fuck, let him in,” Butch continues, “he's a Vaultie too.”

That seems enough to convince Griffon, who disengages the lock to let Tate in.

“Thank fuck!” Tate throws himself against Butch’s chest, wrapping his arms around Butch’s shoulders. Like Griffon isn't even there. But he must remember they're not alone pretty quickly, because he drops his hands and tightens his face. “What the fuck happened. You said...you need help.” Something is wrong with Tate’s face. Bruised badly on one side and slightly swollen around his jaw.

“Yeah,” Butch isn't entirely sure where to start. His Pipboy lights up.

130758 > 271257: Hey, we’re alright. Going after the G.E.C.K. now. Love you.

“So,” Butch swallows, “wait, what the fuck happened to you.” He runs his fingers down the side of Tate’s face.

Tate winces, stepping back. “It's fine.”

“It sure as fuck isn't fine,” Butch knows he's panicking. Because, oh fuck, neither of them are fine. He needs to breathe.

“You first,” Tate reaches into his pack and holds up his Pipboy, open to Butch’s messages. “Where is Freddie? Oh, fuck.”

“Listen,” Butch puts his hands on Tate’s shoulders. “Shit...shit.”

Griffon steps to their side, waving to get their attention. Neither of them take much notice.

“Okay, so. Right. There was a hostage situation, here in the Vault.”

Tate frowns, “Who was taken hostage?”

“The Overseer,” Butch responds.

Griffon interjects, “That would be me!”

“No one asked you, kid,” Tate bares his teeth. 

“Be nice,” Butch steadies. “Okay, shit. So I don't...actually know where the fuck they were from?”

“Can I talk?” Griffon asks, kind of meek. 

This time, Butch snaps, “What?”

“They, the woman, she got real angry when she heard you over the intercom. When you mentioned Lazarus.”

“Okay, fine,” Butch turns back to Tate, “So I guess they were Lazarus.” Running his hand down the front of his face, Butch knows he can't keep delaying the inevitable. “Freddie was hurt,” his breath shudders, “he’ll live, he's recovering. But one of the attackers got away, I guess.” Butch looks over at Griffon.

“We searched the Vault. But we think she exited through this door...same way they would have gotten in.”

“So that's why you didn't want me to tell Amata?”

“Did you tell Amata?” Butch’s heart is pounding again.

“No. I didn't get your message until I like, pressed my Pipboy up against the door. She's back at the apartment with the G.E.C.K….”

“This is so fucked,” Butch admits.

“It always is.”

Tate's right. They can't do anything the easy way.

“....So,” Tate says, “Freddie is going to be okay?”

Butch nods, “it was...bad. She slit his throat. But he's recovering now.”

Reaching forward, Tate grabs at the front of Butch’s shirt. “This is Freddie’s?”

Looking down, Butch remembers his shirt is caked in blood. Hard and dry, brownish red. “Yeah,” he looks at his hands. Those are mostly clean. But he doesn't remember washing them.

“What do we do?” Tate bites at his bottom lip, “how long is Freddie out?”

“The doctor didn't say...ah.”

“Okay, next priority. The G.E.C.K.?”

“I can help with that,” Griffon bounces on his heels, “if keeping it means that I'm gonna keep having assassins trying to off me. I'll gladly give it up.”

Tate narrows his eyes at Griffon, “Show us where it is.”

Tate's shift to laser focus is unnerving to say the least. Every time Butch thinks he's gotten used to the intensity, Tate manages to find a new way to make things weird.

“Um,” Griffon takes a step back, holding up his hands defensively. “Why don't you go visit your friend in the clinic? I'll bring the G.E.C.K. to you?”

Tate opens his mouth to protest, but Butch tries to stop him with a hand on his waist. “It's okay, let's go see Freddie.”

“Fuck Freddie,” Tate spits. But he doesn't challenge Griffon again.

Griffon hurries out before Tate can change his mind. Butch shoves at Tate’s shoulder, getting him to follow back to the clinic. The halls are empty, this time.

Inside the clinic, Tate goes right up to the glass. Planting his hands on either side of his face, he peers in at Freddie, motionless on the cot. “Is everyone super young in here too?”

“Yeah,” Butch replies. “The doc is like, a fucking teenager.”

“Teenagers can do a lot to Vaults,” that's kind of a sick joke. Coming from Tate.

“Can do a lot outside of Vaults, too.”

They both let the silence lull. Tate won't take his face away from the glass.

“What happened to your face, Tate?”

His hands come away, leaving smudged fingerprints behind. “Just when you think you've seen every irradiated monster this fucking world can throw at you. Fucking like, leech-men things. I don't know, there was a giant sucker and some hands. We only saw the one.”

“And it punched you in the face?”

“It sucked me in the face.” Tate puts his back against the wall, sliding down to the floor, feet pointed towards the ceiling. “Two of ten, would not recommend.”

“How did it even earn a two?”

“If I was really lonely, I might reconsider.”

“Gross.”

Butch sits back in the doctor’s chair, folding his arms against the table and resting his chin on them. 

“We need to tell Amata."

“We don't know anything yet,” Butch is delaying again, he knows. “In the morning, after the doctor comes.”

\--

The doctor says two days. At least. Before they can move Freddie. They don't want to disturb the mending. Or else Freddie might end up mute.

Griffon comes with the G.E.C.K., all packaged up in a metal case. Tate tells him to open it on the doctor’s desk. Trevor complains he's got other patients to see today.

“They can wait,” Tate says with sure finality.

Griffon pops open the case. Tate inspects everything inside, deeming it suitable. “One of us needs to go back to the apartments. Tell Amata."

Butch sure as shit isn't doing it. “You go.”

Tate shoves him in the chest, hard. Backing him into the wall. Trevor sighs and Griffon whines, putting his hands in front of his face. He does seem pretty weak willed for Overseer. But hell, maybe no one else wanted the job.

“No. You do it.”

Butch snarls back, “Why is this so fucking important to you? You're the one she missed all these years. She still can't be mad at you.”

“You have to talk to her. Butch, you gotta.”

This isn't about Freddie. Freddie is an unfortunate circumstance right this moment.

“Fuck you,” Butch curses.

But Tate lets him down, grabbing the handle on the G.E.C.K. case. “I'll hold on to this one. We don't need them in the same place at the same time when we’re not at full strength.”

Butch stalks towards the door without another word.

\--

Amata rouses from sleep, her hair fanned out around her head. “Butch?” she asks, sitting up on the couch. It's late morning, but they've all had a rough go of it.

“Yeah.”

“Where's Tate? Where’s Freddie?”

Butch doesn't see any sign of Lis or the kid in the apartment. He walks over to the couch. Amata pulls her knees towards her chest, making room for him to sit. Her eyes are wide.

“They're okay,” Butch starts, “Freddie is going to be in the clinic for a couple of days.” As succinctly as he can, Butch explains what happened. He leaves out the part where he ended up covered in Freddie’s blood.

Amata rubs her socked feet against the couch cushion, “But he’ll recover?”

“Yeah. He should.”

Apparently, if Butch doesn't talk about the other thing, Tate is going to straight up murder him.

“Amata."

“Butch.”

“What are we going to tell her?”

Amata shifts her feet again. “Do you want to know her? As a daughter?”

Butch has to be honest with himself, before he can be honest with Amata.

“Yeah,” he finally admits. “I do.”

Amata only frowns, “You didn't want her.”

“Neither did you,” that's cruel. Butch knows it is.

“No,” Amata replies, “I didn't…we were so young. And so much was going on.”

“We never really loved each other,” now that Butch has started his confession. He can't really stop.

“No. We didn't.”

“I'm sorry.”

Amata drops her head back. “I can't pretend like...fuck,” she laughs a little hysterically. “I love her so much, Butch. I may not have wanted her then. And she's kind of an asshole.”

Now Butch is laughing too, “You just called your own kid an asshole. Holy fuck. Whose fault is that?”

“Your ridiculously dominant genes.”

Butch smiles. This doesn't fix everything. Hell, it probably doesn't actually fix anything. But it's a start.

Amata turns serious again, “Do you think they'd let me see Freddie?”

Butch honestly doesn't know, “Eighty-five let Tate in just because you asked nice, right? Visiting your injured husband seems a better reason than that.”

“Oh fuck, I never want Tate to know what I told them to make that happen…”

Butch winces, “I have some idea. And yeah, let's not. Though he might have his own suspicions. You know how he is.”

“I knew how he was.”

\--

They're just about ready to head to Vault when Tate comes stumbling into the apartments, Freddie draped over his back. Freddie’s so much taller than Tate that he's bent over and floppy, hands draping over Tate’s chest.

“This idiot wouldn't stay in bed,” Tate snaps.

“This idiot feels fine,” Freddie slurs.

Tate tosses the G.E.C.K. kit onto the floor before dragging Freddie off of him and depositing him on the couch.

“Oh, Freddie,” Amata rushes to sit next to him, cradling his face in her hands. There's a thick scar running across his neck. That won't heal.

“Yeah, he sure looks like he sprung that joint on his own,” Butch comments. All of Freddie’s limbs are lax. He's melting into the couch and against Amata.

“Trust me,” Tate says, “he was ripping out his IVs and stumbling around the clinic. Calling for Amata and the children. And it's not like any of those kids in 33 could actually restrain him.”

Butch doubts that. Because one, yeah, a teenager might not be able to hold Freddie down. Even though he's sort of scrawny, he's tall as fuck. But there are plenty of guys in their early twenties still in 33. And two, fucking Tate sure as fuck could hold him down. Tate can hold down a fucking deathclaw if he really puts his mind to it.

“Here,” Tate starts pulling shit out of his pockets. Syringes and pills and shit. “He takes two of these every six hours,” he hands the pill bottle to Amata first. “Ten tonight he needs this syringe,” he passes over a capped dose with blue fluid inside. “Then this last stim. That's everything Trevor told me as we were heading out.”

Amata, for what it's worth, looks pretty happy to have her husband back. Even if he's blasted out of his mind on drugs. “I guess I should get him into bed.”

Freddie’s got his arms around her shoulders now. And she's certainly not strong enough to move him alone.

“Amata,” Freddie nuzzles the side of her face, “you're so smart and pretty and I love you so much but shhhhh,” his whole face brightens, “Tate can't knoooooow."

“Alright then,” Amata squeaks, “let's get you out of here before you actually say something embarrassing.”

“Sit on my faaaaace, Amataaaa.”

Too late.

\--

Tate skims his fingers just under the hem of Butch’s tee.

They're crammed in the tiny storage closet room again. Another day and Freddie might be able to travel. They've sent a message with a courier back to Kinwood, to let Curie know they've been delayed.

One of the G.E.C.K.s is shoved under their cot. Amata has the other one. They still need to figure out what they do from here. How they prevent Lazarus from ever getting the kits.

“Butch,” Tate abandons Butch’s tee, grabbing hold of the waistband of his boxers instead, pulling their hips flush together under the thin sheet. The walls are thin too. Not like that'll stop them much.

Butch slots his knee in between Tate’s thighs, letting him grind down on his leg. Tate’s already rock hard, and Butch is getting there too, pawing at Tate’s bare back and sinking his blunt nails against warm skin.

They both keep their mouths open as they kiss, wet and fierce and like they'll drown without it. They never learned to breathe on their own, not really. No one else is likely to understand them, this. How there's a lot of fucked up shit they've both seen. And maybe, being able to love each other is the only thing they've got left to hold onto. Like it proves they were never really that bad all along.

Butch grips the back of Tate’s neck, squeezing down hard until Tate whines into his mouth. Instead of kissing, Tate starts to bite, sharp, sudden on Butch’s lower lip. Until they both taste blood.

Slamming his hips against Tate’s, Butch forces Tate’s back against the wall, bracketing him in with the stretch of his taller body. The mattress springs squeak in protest. Butch thrusts his hips again.

“Oh, fuck,” Tate gasps, trying to claw at anything. Grabbing the back of Butch’s hair with one hand.

“Spread your legs.”

It's awkward trying to kick away their boxers when they're already pressed this close together and neither one of them wants to move an inch. Butch feels his sweat collecting in the fabric of his tee. He gets that off too, before crowding Tate again.

Tate’s cock is hard, pressing into Butch’s abdomen, raking against his stomach with every roll of his hips. Every time it brushes against Butch’s cock, makes him squirm.

“Turn over,” Butch hisses.

“Make me.”

So Butch does, though that means they're loud as fuck. He grabs Tate by the hips, trying to wrench him around so they're back to chest. Tate fights him, clawing at Butch’s shoulders. But it's half-assed, at best.

Butch gets Tate turned around, pressing his face into the wall. Tate whines, filthy in the back of his throat.

Sliding his cock between Tate’s thighs, Butch starts to thrust. It's not quite slick enough, Tate clamping down with this muscles around Butch’s cock. His shaft slides along Tate’s balls, keeping the fiction maddening for them both.

Reaching back, Tate grabs Butch’s hair in his fist, pulling sharply as Butch slams their hips together. Like this, there's no concern on Butch’s part of it being too much.

“Harder,” Tate rasps, his hand letting go of Butch and coming to wrap around his own cock.

Butch is nearly punching Tate’s body through the wall by the time he comes. Trapping Tate between the paint and himself. He growls, low in his chest as he tightens, coming between Tate’s thighs. Tate keeps pumping himself and Butch wraps his hand around Tate’s throat from behind, clamping down as he hits his orgasm, spilling against the wall.

They both breathe heavily as they come down from their high. Butch inhales Tate’s scent at the back of his neck, salty and musky and basically the same for the last ten years or whatever. It's a long time. Butch still wants more.

Tate starts rolling over and Butch gives him space. Grabbing up Butch’s shirt, Tate wipes between his legs, then makes a half assed attempt at getting his cum off the wall before giving up.

“Feel better?” Butch asks.

Tate snickers, laying flat on his back and taking up more than his fair share of the bed. “Like it did nothing for you.”

\--

Tate heads out after breakfast to go meet with the trader. Lis is going to introduce them. Butch considers going with, but he only ever gets in the way when Tate is trying to do his thing. He gets too like, fucking clingy and suspicious, when all Tate is trying to do is get the price of something down by batting his eyelashes or whatever.

Freddie is still super loopy from the pain meds, so Amata entertains Howie. Butch sits in the armchair and fiddles with his Pipboy dial. He hasn't programmed anything in a long time. Not since leaving Starfield. He opens up one of his unfinished games.

He executes the file first, trying to remember where he left off. The thing barely loads. Right, okay.

Opening up the source file, he starts poking around. Which fucking game was this?

Around eleven, Freddie actually makes it out of bed. Amata asks Butch to keep an eye on Howie while she makes sure Freddie is actually with it enough to be up and about.

The outside door slams open and closed. Lis is shouting. It's Butch’s name.

Butch gets up, running into the hall. 

Lis has blood on his face, down his shirt. It's not enough for Lis to be hurt, just a fine spray.

Tate. Tate. Where is Tate.

Lis’ hands are shaking. 

Amata comes into the hallway on Butch’s heels.

“Lazarus...I think, I don't know. They oh, fuck,” Lis covers his mouth with his hand. “They killed the trader.”

Butch shouts, not realizing entirely how loud he is, “Tate! What the fuck?”

“They took him,” Lis shakes his head, “they didn't want to kill him though. But they took him.”

Of course they didn't want him dead. The Lone Wanderer isn't worth shit to anybody dead.


	8. The Road Would Always Lead Here

“Fuck,” Tate rasps, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. Fuck. Where the fuck is his other arm?

He aches all over. But he isn't strapped down or anything. Opening his eyes, Tate has to blink several times for shit to start coming into focus. The room is so bright. But the sheets are dingy and the place smells like bleach. 

Pushing himself up with one arm, Tate tries to put what happened to him back together. He was talking with the trader, trying to figure out how to get plasma for Butch’s better gun. It's hard to get ahold of. Not that many people have energy weapons that nice.

And then there was noise, a lot of noise. Lis and the trader were both screaming. Then...a whole lot of nothing. And now, here.

The room isn't big, just enough space for a cot and to walk around a little. There's a metal wall on one side, glass on the other. This wasn't purpose built to hold prisoners or anything. This couldn't actually keep Tate, or anyone descent at breaking things apart, contained. As a containment room, it's been hacked together from scraps.

Across the glass is another room, just as small, but with a desk in addition to everything else. And a small, low-feature terminal hooked up to power and buzzing away.

A woman sits in from of the terminal, her back to Tate. Her black hair is streaked through with gray. She's fine boned and thin, typing away at the keyboard.

Tate tries his feet out, checking under the bed too, for his pack or arm. He finds neither. The woman across the glass keeps typing.

His feet hurt, his back hurts, everything fucking hurts. His head spins a little as he stumbles towards the glass. Someone at least took the time to dress him in new clothes. Just jeans and a shirt. That's sort of fucking creepy, that they undressed him at all.

“Hey!” he pounds his fist against the glass. It’s thicker than he thought. Bulletproof, maybe. “HEY!”

The woman spins around in her chair, her eyebrows raising suddenly when she sees him, her thin lips parting. She looks afraid and joyous and full of disbelief all at once, “James?”

No. No fucking way.

“Dr. Li,” Tate chokes.

She realizes her mistake right away, standing from her chair, “Tate,” this time, it's only quiet shock in her voice. “I thought you'd…”

Tate shakes his head, “You stayed with them. You helped them,” he speeds up, his words pinched together. “The whole time. You were with the Brotherhood. You knew, you knew.” Grabbing at his own chest, he can't hold on to his rising and crashing heart, thrown against the rocks of memory. He's twenty again, and fucking terrified. “You let them. You knew and you let them.”

“Tate,” she snaps, “you're not making any sense.” Her face softens, “oh...god...it is you. It really is. Elder Lyons said you died.”

Crumpling to the floor, Tate can barely breathe. “And who would have killed me, you think?” he hisses. “You knew they were hunting me. That they wouldn't leave me the fuck alone,” he screeches.

Out. Out. He has to get out. He scrambles to his feet, rushing towards the door. Finding it locked, he throws himself against the glass instead. He wants to be AWAY from Dr. Li. But he can't get out the door. So he’ll break her glass. Do something, something.

He doesn't have the sense to throw his shoulder into it. When he smashes against the barrier, Li recoils. He does it again, pain searing down his side when the glass doesn't give. But the exertion is starting to take the panic out of him. Not enough, but a little. Enough that he doesn't throw himself against the wall a third time.

But there's something in his bones, telling him the metal wall is better. Better. Will hurt better. Will let him out. Take the fight down.

“Tate,” she tries to steady. “Tate, calm down.”

“WHERE THE FUCK AM I?” he screams, not expecting an answer. He almost fears the answer is “2277.” Though that's a when and not a where. And Li looks older, dark lines around her eyes and mouth, her hair thinning at the crown. 

Tate pulls at his own hair, pulls and pulls until he rips a fistful out. He looks at the black strands in his hand. He reaches towards his left shoulder, running his fingers against the metal junction where his arm attaches.

He can barely get his breathing under control, let alone string a sentence. But he has to remember where he is. Find a way to get his feet on the ground. “Where are we?” he asks without looking up. If he sees the contempt in her face, it will just set him off again.

“The Gallery. Lazarus has claimed this facility as their base of operations. Modified for their use.”

Tate swallows, finding his tongue again, “And you're working with them?” He holds off, ‘Like you worked with the Brotherhood’ growing fat on their milk and promises of a better world. But only for the ones they deemed worthy.

“Not by choice,” she frowns. “I left the Institute shortly after I learned of the destruction of the Prydwen. I met the man who destroyed the ship, sometime before the sabotage. It was easy enough to tell that the Institute was next on his list.”

Tate feels all giddy again. Because he was there. He was with Vishnu Weiss when the Institute fell. Him and Butch manned the teleporter room, helping scientists and synths out while Weiss and his companions laid waste to the rest of the leadership.

“That's done,” Tate tells her. “Weiss stormed the gates, brought them down. Didn't stand a chance.”

Dr. Li keeps her eyes locked to Tate’s as he explains.

“I was there.”

“Why am I not surprised?” She shakes her head. “After I left the Institute, I was picked up by a Lazarus search party. I don't know how they even knew I left. But they've recovered a number of my former colleagues. Scientists left to fend for themselves when the Institute collapsed. Most of them had never been to the surface. They wouldn't have survived.”

“But you, you would have.” Tate knows Dr. Li is likely to survive the next apocalypse too.

She smiles, harsh angles cutting across her face, “Of course.”

\--

An aide comes to recover Tate, a beefy looking man with his dark hair in a single, long braid. If Tate were to guess, he'd say the guy was a Citadel Knight, before he ended up here. His white shirt is doing a hell of a job at not splitting at the seams. Only two types of people in this world come built like that: Vault kids and Brotherhood babies. And this guy doesn't have a Pipboy.

He tells Tate not to try anything funny. Tate bites his bottom lip, promising to be good, to follow orders. Dipping his head lets Tate look up through his lashes. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't. Never really hurts to try, though. Looking less threatening than he actually is has always been his greatest strength. Probably even looks weaker without his arm.

The aide doesn't give a name, just shoving Tate through the open door with his hand at Tate’s back. Tate makes a muffled noise, stumbling forward.

“Walk,” the aide shoves again, making Tate lead.

Coming out of the room, Tate gets an idea of the Gallery’s layout. An old shopping mall, the cells are converted from a sporting goods storefront subdivided into smaller sections. Outside the cells, the upstairs hallway hangs over top the main floor, with railings to keep shoppers from falling off the balcony. The walkway is wide to accommodate families and strollers and crowds at Christmas. Really, really hard to defend with the vaulted ceiling up above and all the glass, both from the skylights and looking out onto the street.

Tate keeps his mouth shut and his movements contained. There's only one direction to walk, the aide close at his back. He slows his pace just slightly. Not really enough to make it seem deliberate, but it makes the aide walk into him from behind, brushing up against Tate’s body.

“Sorry,” Tate draws his arm across his chest, as if trying to close himself off. He’ll experiment with a bunch of subtle things, trying to pick out which ones will work to his advantage.

There's fight and flight. And when neither of those work, there's fake it like you want to fuck.

Grabbing Tate by the collar of his shirt, the aide directs Tate into one of the boarded-up shops, accessible through a crude wooden door, constructed from planks lated together with rusted wire.

The room is crammed with what must be inventory from a dozen different places. Racks of women's clothing, box after box of sneakers, crates stuffed with board games, a trash can filled with identical power drills, still in their boxes. It's a scavenger’s dream.

But most of all, Tate notices that the room is dark and quiet. They're all alone.

Running on adrenaline, Tate spins around, putting his palm on the aide’s chest, feather light.

Don't be too aggressive. Let them think they’re in control.

“Why are we here?” Tate murmurs.

“Tate!”

Tate whips back around, he knows that voice.

Caroline Jackson clambers out from behind a stack of toy train sets. Her hair is neatly pulled back and her face bare. Even on the run from Starfield, she was mostly always perfectly made up. Lipstick, at minimum.

She winds her way out of the clutter. Someone who may be her assistant on her heals. He's about Tate’s height, but much more slender. Probably weighs a hundred-twenty soaking wet.

“Jackson? This where you run off to?” Tate bristles. Even now, after what they've been through, Tate doesn't know if he should trust her or not.

Him and Butch would have never made it out of Starfield without Jackson disabling the turrets. But it sure doesn't look great that as soon as they arrived on the East Coast, she runs straight into the arms of the Brotherhood remnants. From what Tate understands of it, she's the heir apparent with the Maxson line dead and buried. Though that doesn't explain why she's hiding out in the storage room.

“Maybe don't go spreading that name around,” she hisses. But there's no anger in her eyes. “Just Caroline works, or they call me the Carpenter,” she beams, looking her age, all of twenty-three.

“Why the fuck do they call you the Carpenter?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Tate leans back against a stack of coffee makers jammed up against the wall.

“Cause I'm going to build a better world, that's why,” she snickers. “Step one is making sure Lazarus never completes their objective.”

“So, wait, what,” Tate needs some clarification, “are you working with them or not.”

“You know how it goes,” she shrugs, “join some secretive, paramilitary organization, get on some people's’ good side with my superior programming skill, convince them to let me hang around, take them down from the inside.” She makes it all sound easy.

“Why should I believe you?” Tate asks. Jackson has a lot to gain here.

“I thought the Brotherhood was a dead end back in BC and I think it's a dead end out here too.” She fiddles with her back pocket, fishing out her cigarette pack and lighting one. She knows better than to offer one to Tate. “I've grown up in the system. And the system doesn't work. They're looking for a G.E.C.K., two, ideally. So they can poison...well...everyone who didn't grow up in a vault or heavily shielded.”

But Tate already knows this.

“I hacked your file,” she admits. “I know what you did ten years ago. With the purifier? And I know what Lazarus is doing. They want to finish what the Enclave started. What they tried to start. With you.”

“Do you have any idea why they picked me up?”

She picks ash off her tongue with her fingertips, “Yeah. You're making too much noise. Have been since we landed in the Commonwealth. Elder Lyons the First banked on the rumor you were dead. Elder Lyons the Second, well, I don't think she gave a fuck. Wasn’t around long enough to make a difference. Arthur Maxson though? You knew Maxson?”

“Not really. He was a kid. I guess I met him once or twice. I wasn't with the Brotherhood any longer than I needed to be.”

“You made a hell of an impression on him. He had his own personal file on you, buddy. He never believed you got offed. Anyway, Lazarus inherited his file when the Prydwen went down.”

“None of this explains shit. Why not just kill me, if they figured out I'm alive?”

“Because they also picked up a shit ton of Institute scientists. You know about synths, right?”

Tate narrows his eyes, “Yeah, of course.”

“Who better to fill in the holes of a decimated population than a bunch of synth worker bees? And who better to provide the genetic material for our new robot underlings than the man the Wasteland couldn't kill?”

“Fuck me.”

“Yeah,” Jackson smiles, “you're pretty fucked.”

“This is the worst fucking idea I've ever heard. They know I'm,” Tate swallows, “not well, right? Like, that I'm fucked to start with?”

“Maxson didn't seem to think so.”

“Maxson didn't know me!”

Jackson shrugs, “That's in the past. What's important is the future. Where I make sure I dismantle this sorry excuse for a faction permanently.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

“Good old fashioned rebellion. I've got my code in everything already. Now I just need human bodies to follow me.”

Tate looks from the aide to Jackson’s assistant, then back at her. “Please tell me you have more people than this?”

“About twenty percent of Lazarus will follow me when I give the word,” she shows her first sign of doubt. “I think that's enough, but…”

“But?”

“Finny here,” she gestures to the aide, “is supposed to take you to Martha. Martha is going to ask a lot of you. You know, she’ll turn on the charm, try to take tissue samples, parade you around real pretty. I need you to figure out how to take Martha out. I'm hoping that’ll make the other eighty percent less organized. Give me an advantage.”

“And what's your endgame here, Jackson?”

“Caroline,” she corrects. “I'm not going to move in to replace her, if that's what you're thinking. I could have done that back at Starfield.” She frowns, “My ancestors made this mess. And I want to end it.”

Tate laughs. Because that shit is true of every last one of them. And this shit? This doesn't end.

\--

Tate doesn't try anything funny with Finny as he's marched off to meet Martha. For now, it's best that Jackson thinks Tate has fallen in line. Hell, maybe in the end, Tate does support her bid for anti-power. But right now, his only focus has to be survival. Sort of turns out survival is what he's known for.

Finny schools his face through the hallway, any lingering softness falling away. Not that there was much to begin with. He pushes Tate towards the broken escalator. Tate takes the steps two at a time to the ground floor.

Marched past rows of empty terminals, Tate realizes Lazarus wasn't the Gallery’s first post-War occupants, just its most recent. The desks and terminals give way to endless racks of clothes as they weave their way through Hudson’s department store.

The racks end and open up into another repurposed merchandise floor. Mannequins line the walls, and up on the platform, a tidy woman with blonde hair and brown eyes, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She might be forty-five, certainly no older. And while she’s sitting, Tate can tell she's muscular, built for fighting.

Next to her stands another woman, slighter, but no less athletic. There's bruising speckled along the side of her face, trailing down under her black turtleneck sweater. 

Behind them both is a massive screen. Tate hasn't seen one like it since leaving New Vegas. They used to watch movies in the Vault too, educational films, shit like that. Right now, nothing's playing.

“Leave us, Finny,” the woman seated at the desk folds her hands together, resting them on the table top. “So, you're Tate Zhang?”

Tate only shrugs his shoulders.

“You're shorter than I expected.”

Arthur Maxson was literally like, ten the last time Tate saw him. So the kid probably had a skewed sense of perspective. 

“Well,” she sits back in her chair, “I have a proposal for you.”

Tate raises one eyebrow, “I'm listening.”

She pulls Tate’s Pipboy out from under her desk, fiddling with the dials. “I've never seen one quite like this.” Her focus narrows to the screen. “Twenty-seven, twelve, fifty-seven has sent you twelve messages,” she holds out the Pipboy with one hand towards Tate. “Why don't you sit down, message them back?”

The temptation is too much. Tate reaches out to snatch the Pipboy from her. He has to sit down to use it, cradling it in his lap as he starts typing back to Butch.

130758 > 271257: Someplace called the Gallery  
130758 > 271257: I'll handle it.

“This would be faster with, you know,” he inclines his head towards his left shoulder.

“Please,” she says, “allow us some precautions.”

Tate doesn't look up, waiting for a message back from Butch.

271257 > 130758: got it

Butch coming here might be a bad idea. Tate worries that was the actual plan all along. The Enclave’s plan, the Brotherhood’s plan, Lazarus’, they're all the fucking same. Chasing this idea of pre-War purity of constitution. Genetic material, untouched by radiation. But the entire concept is a lie. They're all infected.

But Amata, Butch, Freddie. Clara and Michael too. They're underground children. The type that keep getting harvested. Tate is only a pretender.

Does Lazarus know that?

“So,” she smiles, “hopefully this shows our good faith in negotiations. I am Martha Bailey. This is my sister, Mary,” looking up, she smiles at the turtlenecked woman. They don't look much like sisters. But that could mean anything. “And as I said, we have a proposal for you.”

Tate clutches his Pipboy close to his chest. He already knows they are going to take it back. Anything he shares with Butch, or Butch shares with him, they're going to read, dissect.

“What?”

“We were hoping you could help us in the labs. We’re running biomedical trials, and we think your experience on Project Purity would be a boon.”

The fuck? Yeah, sure, he hung out with the scientists while his dad worked. But mostly he just got in the way of what they were doing. His dad couldn't wait to get rid of him, sending him and Charon off to find the G.E.C.K. at first opportunity. So either Martha is lying, and they're just trying to get him willingly into an environment where they can poke and prod the fuck out of him. Or their information is even shittier than Tate thought possible.

“What do I get in return?” he asks.

Never come off too easy. Make them chase, a little.

“Well, we would obviously provide for your needs here. Access to your Pipboy, and you'd need your arm to work. We could protect your friends as well.”

“If your offer is so generous, why didn't you come to me straight?” People died, Tate realizes. Mary was the one who brought him here. Mary killed the trader. Killed Lis. Oh, fuck.

Martha frowns, “Your reputation precedes you, Tate. You're not known to be an easy man to talk to. But Arthur Maxson, he believed in you. And so do I. We can make this work. Just,” she smiles, “think about it.”

“I will,” Tate mumbles.

271257 > 130758: sounds like you have everything under control.

“If you would,” Martha holds out her hand for the Pipboy. Tate doesn't want to let it go. “I look forward to the future we build together.”

Tate takes one last look at the Pipboy screen before handing it over. He can make this work.

\--

Tate taps at the glass between their cells. 

Dr. Li’s door is always unlocked. He's seen her come and go. So it's less of a cell than his.

Sighing loud enough that Tate can hear it, she swivels her chair around to face him.

“What, Tate?”

He sits down on the floor, crossing his legs. This is the best way to tell who is lying to him, and who isn't.

“What does Martha want with me?”

Dr. Li turns around without answering. Tate's heart drops, but then he's filled with spiking rage, bubbling up in his chest. He fights to push it back down. But he realizes Dr. Li is handwriting something, not typing.

She takes the sheet of paper and presses it to the glass.

What she says and the text she's written don't match up. 

“They know you worked on Project Purity.”

_they think you are genetically pure_

“You truly are your father’s son.”

_and they are idiots_

He has another question. But given Dr. Li’s behavior, he's not sure he can ask it out loud. They've left him nothing to write with. Dr. Li starts shredding the paper in her hands. She turns back to her desk, taking her bottled water and forcing the scraps inside, making sure they are good and wet. Unreadable. 

“This place is a shithole,” Tate says. “They could really use a decent carpenter.”

Without missing a beat, Dr. Li responds, “I wish they would make repairs. That would serve us all well.”


	9. Eight Lies are Better than Once, Bacause at Some Point the Truth Slips Through

Amata bites at her lower lip.

She's right, she's always right.

Butch puts his fist through the drywall in Lis’ apartment. Fuck. Fuck. He’ll have to...he can't pretend like he knows how to fix that. Well, he could figure it out, given time and tools and the opportunity to make mistakes.

“Fuck,” he pulls his hand back through the hole, staring at the new opening in the wall, the speckled blood along his knuckles. Lis won't know for sure what happened until he wakes up. They've put him in bed next to Freddie for the time being. Freddie still sleeps a lot, but he should be up and walking by tomorrow.

Butch starts picking plaster off his skin. He's a fucking idiot.

Amata bounces Howie in her lap, trying to get them to calm back down. So, great, another thing that’s Butch’s fault.

“We don't know where they took him.”

Butch scowls, “But we know who took him, right? And you've been following them for ages? And you have no fucking idea?” He's getting too loud again, and he knows it.

“I have ideas. But it's not just that, Butch. We have to go to Kinwood first. We can't just run into this blindly.”

Kinwood. The children. Oh, fuck.

Butch throws himself on the couch next to Amata, burying his face in his hands. He keeps them tented over his mouth as they start to plan. “So we go, make sure the kids are safe. Figure out where to start looking for Tate. Looking for Lazarus.” It's all so fucking vague. But it's all he has right now.

He starts tapping at his Pipboy. It's a fucking long shot. And maybe it's risky. But fuck. What else can he do?

Amata doesn't interrupt him. She just waits. 

“We have to think about the G.E.C.K.s too,” Butch realizes. They can't go walking into Lazarus with the very kits they're after. They’ll have to be hidden, protected. And they'll have to be split up. But there are only three of them now, and the children to look after.

This was so much easier when it didn't matter who got hurt. Acceptable casualties. But Butch ain't twenty anymore. And he's old enough to know “acceptable” doesn't let him sleep any better at night.

\--

The trip to Kinwood is solemn. Freddie makes it okay, though he spends a third of the time leaning on Butch to keep his balance. The painkillers still have him kind of loopy. But he's better about holding his tongue.

Seeing Michael bound through the door breaks Amata’s quiet resolve. She scoops up her son, though he's really getting too big to carry, holding him close. “Sorry Michael,” she cards her fingers through his hair, “sorry baby that we were gone so long.”

“It's okay!” he shouts at the side of her face. Amata puts him down. “Daddy,” he crashes into Freddie’s legs instead. Freddie gets down at Michael’s height. At least he has the good sense not to pick him up in his current condition. He kisses the top of Michael’s head, telling him it's good to see him.

Clara stomps out next, followed by Curie. She hugs her mom without hesitation, then punches her dad in the arm. She's eleven. She doesn't want to be babied like Michael does. “Did you kick ass?” she asks.

Freddie laughs, reaching around to pull at her ponytail. Clara snaps a, “Fuck you!” and Amata makes a half-hearted attempt to correct her coarse language. It's a losing battle though.

Michael wants to hug Butch next. Because Michael wants to hug everyone. Butch isn't about to tell the kid no. Luckily, the contact is brief, because he goes right back to his mom.

Clara sticks close to her father as they head back towards the house. Curie’s been watching the whole thing from the doorway, smiling softly and welcoming them back.

“Monsieur Gomez,” she frowns when Freddie gets close. “What medication have you been taking?”

“Ummmm, shit,” Freddie fumbles around in his pocket, handing over the pill bottle like a child who has been caught with candy. 

Curie reads the label and tisks, “We have so much better alternatives now. If you do not need me for the moment,” she excuses herself, “I will make something more agreeable.”

She slips away, though not before kissing Amata on the cheek.

“She's worried about you,” Amata snickers at Freddie.

“She's always like that,” Freddie admits. “She thinks I'm too thin. She thinks I don’t eat right. She thinks I'm a bag of symptoms.”

Amata smiles, “She thinks you're a great project.”

As peaceful a scene as this all fucking is, Butch can't let himself relax. He wants to head out again. Right fucking now. Tate is alone, fuck knows where. And anything could be happening. Tate isn't here. Tate. Tate. Tate. His Pipboy lights up.

130758 > 271257: Someplace called the Gallery  
130758 > 271257: I'll handle it.

Butch looks over to Amata and Freddie, settling in on the couch, Michael seated between them. Clara is sitting on folded legs, taking up the entire armchair by herself.

“The Gallery. They've taken Tate to a place called the Gallery.”

Amata tilts her head, “Okay, that's a start. Don't, don't tell him too much.”

“Right, I'm not a fucking idiot,” Butch spins his Pipboy dial, hammering out a quick message to Tate. This is all they need for now.

271257 > 130758: got it

There's a sharp knock at the door. 

“I'll get it,” Clara hops up, heading for the door.

Without thinking through the consequences, Butch reaches out, grabbing her by the back of her jacket and yanking her away. “You can't just open the door for strangers.”

Clara growls, “Why the fuck not? You're not my-” she bites her own tongue.

Butch pulls his plasma pistol from his hip. Amata stands too, drawing her side arm, “Take your brother into the bedroom, Clara.”

Clara opens her mouth to protest again, but grabs Michael harshly by the arm, tearing him off the couch and stomping towards the back of the house. Freddie’s still too loopy to help. But he’s not going to hurt either.

Butch keeps close to the wall. They don't have a peephole to look out. So it's either swing the door open and see who it is or ask. Butch decides to be bold, grabbing the handle and throwing open the door. He steps into the doorway, gun drawn. If the fucker is going to kill ‘em, Butch plans on killing them first.

The man on the other side of the door has a shock of pink hair and a stocky build. Butch remembers him. Kaspar, the fucker who was selling drugs to kids. “I thought I told you to stay the fuck out of trouble?” Butch really doesn't have time for this.

“Wait, wait, oh fuck, don't kill me. Please don't kill me!” Kaspar doesn't even have a gun, just keeping his hands over his head. “I thought, oh, fuck, oh fuck.”

Butch grabs the kid by the front of his dingy tee, hauling him inside, “What are you doing here?” Kaspar hasn't technically done anything wrong, at least as far as Butch knows. But he's caught Butch when he's already keyed up and ready to snap.

“Your friend! You know, the short one. Oh, fuck. I fucked up bad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

“How fucking high are you right now?” Butch asks.

Clara’s voice rings through the house, she's standing in the doorway of the bedroom, arms folded over her chest, “He looks pretty fucking high.”

Amata groans, lowering her gun. “Clara stay with your brother.”

“I'm not that high,” Kaspar squeaks, “just enough to get through the day, you know? But, but.”

“But what!” Butch yells, ready to put Kaspar through the wall, “What the fuck did you do?”

“Lazarus, they paid me for information. Where you went, what you looked like? Um, um, they were really interested in your friend.”

“In my husband?”

Kaspar rolls his head around his neck, “Yeah! Yeah! They asked me a bunch of questions. I told them, I told them you went to Brynford, what you looked like. I needed the money, I needed.”

“You fucking shit!”

Kaspar is bulky, but it doesn't mean he's got any real sort of strength. Not like Butch has got. Butch hoists him up with both hands, slamming him against the wall, shaking the whole house. Thing ain't so strongly built.

“Fucking fuck! Butch!” Amata yells.

But Butch is sort of too far gone, pounding one fist into Kaspar’s face as he uses the other one to keep him pinned against the wall. “I will fucking kill you!” He smashes Kaspar in the face again. Kaspar tries to hide his face in his arms, but he's too shook up already to hold any sort of ground.

Amata kicks Butch, hard, in the back of the knee. She ain't strong enough to take him down, but she's angry enough to get his attention. Kaspar’s bleeding down the front of his shirt, blood streaming from his busted lip and nose. He's sobbing pathetically, trying to hiccup back his breath.

“You can't fucking kill him in my house. At least take it outside,” she growls.

Butch comes to his senses, sort of. Or maybe he's just tired now. He lets go of Kaspar, letting him crumple to the floor. Kaspar tries to wipe his face, but he's shaking too much to do much of anything.

“I can make this better,” Kaspar groans, “I know where they took him, I swear.”

“We already know that, you asshole.”

“Wait,” Kaspar chokes, “but I've been inside. I swear I've been inside.”

“Inside where?”

“The Gallery,” he wheezes. If Butch really ain't gonna kill him, the kid could use a stim for his face. Fuck. “That's how Lazarus knows me, right. I used to live there, before they kicked me out. I can help you find your husband. I promise.”

Butch takes a step towards Kaspar, hovering over his curled up body, making himself look big. “What's to prove you ain't gonna turn on me again?”

“I didn't have to come here!” Kaspar says, “I came because I felt bad. I want to make things right. Please.”

“I fucking hate this,” Butch admits, rubbing his forehead. He has a stim in his pack.

Amata relaxes her shoulders, but still doesn't sit down. Freddie’s tense, but there's little for him to do.

Getting the stim out of his pack, Butch isn't gentle, shoving it into Kaspar’s jaw. He might be sore for awhile. But Butch didn't fuck him up too bad. “Can you fight sober, or no?” Wait stupid question, Kaspar can't fight at all. “Never mind.”

“No, no,” Kaspar corrects, “I do alright with pistols. Riding or not. I'm not as bad as you think.”

“You're pretty bad,” Butch isn't about to explain how he knows.

“Butch,” Amata interrupts, “Can I talk to you?”

Butch swallows, standing back up, “Yeah. Don't you fucking try shit,” he tells Kaspar, “Even doped, Freddie can kick your ass too.” That's probably a lie, but Kaspar looks convinced enough.

Amata checks in the kids’ bedroom, making sure they're still in there. Michael is on the floor coloring. Clara sulks in the corner. “You made me miss the fight!”

“Yeah, I did,” Amata sticks her tongue out at her. “Go keep an eye on your father and our guest.”

“Can I beat the shit out of him too?”

“No, absolutely not,” Amata warns. Huffing, Clara clambers out.

Once Clara’s in the living room, Amata tugs at her ponytail, “We can't come with you. Freddie and I. He's not well enough. You know it. I know it.”

Butch leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. He could use a cigarette or ten. “I know. Fuck, I know.”

“And the G.E.C.K.s.”

“And the G.E.C.K.s,” Butch repeats.

“We send one with Curie. Not too far, just to, I don't know, The Side or something. It's a peaceful settlement. I can't say it's the safest option, but it at least splits up the Kits while we get Tate back.”

Butch nods, not willing to interrupt Amata, the back of his knee is killing him. “Alright, yeah. I'll...go with Kaspar. If I have to kill him, I kill him. At least I know I can take him. Maybe he does help, make things easier.”

“Okay,” she wraps her hand around Butch’s arm, squeezing tight, “good luck...don't do anything stupid.”

Butch snickers, “Too late for that.”

“About thirty years too late.”

Butch takes offense to that. He was an okay kid until he was almost five. 

\--

Kaspar can't keep up, always slightly out of breath. Butch wants to give him hell for it, but truth is, Butch remembers what it was like. All of the physical conditioning in the Wasteland, all the superior Vault nutrition, didn't do shit for him when he was still on Jet.

It's almost ten miles from Kinwood to the Gallery, crossing what used to be a rough part of Philadelphia. Butch doesn't know what was so bad about it. Neat, brick row homes with concrete porches and iron railings. A lot of the railings have been stripped away, some of the bricks displaced. But Butch could imagine growing up here. Well, not really. But it doesn't look so terrible.

They manage to skirt most of the raiders, because Kaspar actually makes good on knowing the terrain. He's got a sense of where everyone is holed up, what houses to avoid, what streets to detour. They do run into a pack of feral dogs. Three mangy mutts working as a pack. They're too hungry to worry much about their safety, facing Butch and Kaspar head on. Butch shoots down two of them while Kaspar fumbles with his gun.

“How the fuck did you even last this long?” Butch says, pulling his bandana down off his face, once the last dog is down.

Kaspar shrugs, “Luck, I guess. I had a rough go of it as a kid.”

Butch doesn't ask for more details, because he doesn't fucking care. But Kaspar goes on with this sob story about how his mama never wanted him and his papa never knew him and he ended up running with Raiders real young. But Butch knows this story because it ain't special. It also ain't his. He doesn't even think it's Kaspar’s real story because it's all so fucking generic.

Another forty minutes of walking and they come up on The Gallery. The long, tall front of the building is mostly glass. Through the windows, half of them broken and half intact, Butch can make out the two story arcade, both floors lined with shops and anchored on either end with department stores. It probably looked real grand when it was new. Middle-class consumerism tied up with a sparkling glass bow. Butch likes the world better now. Fuck nostalgia.

“Come on,” Kaspar tugs at Butch’s jacket sleeve, “We should go around the back. Head up through the docking bays.”

They skirt the bulk of the building, trying to keep out of the line of sight from the massive glass facade. It's mostly impossible, but Kaspar keeps them low to the ground and shielded behind rubble whenever they can manage.

Ducking down an access road, Kaspar gets them to the docking bay doors. While one sheet of the metal barn door is completely intact, the next one over is significantly dented.

Butch inspects the dent. It pulls the door up high enough off the ground that Butch is pretty sure they can shimmy underneath. “You first,” Butch gestures to the gap.

“Fuck why?” 

“You got a better idea?”

“Can't you go, then open the door from the inside?”

Butch puts out his last cigarette against the door, dropping the filter to the ground. “Too much time, too much risk. Now, fucking slither,” he literally kicks Kaspar’s ass square with his boot to get the kid up against the door.

Still grumbling, Kaspar drops to his hands and knees, peering through the gap, “I don't think I'll fit. You're smaller, man.”

“I could just shoot you if you wanna stay outside and all,” Butch puts his hand over the grip of his plasma.

Kaspar flops onto his stomach, “Fuck, never mind, I'm going.” He starts trying to pull himself through with his hands on the other side of the door.

Other than his shirt getting caught on the bottom lip of the door, Kaspar does fine getting through. Butch has an easy go of it. He’s only slightly thinner, but more than that, he has the upper body strength to pull himself through the gap.

The docking bay is dark, cavernous. But Kaspar walks with certainty, leading them directly to the door. It's unlocked. On the other side, the mall.

“They mostly use the second floor I think. The first floor is all labs.”

“How do you know?”

Kaspar shakes his head, “Told you, used to live here. They didn't kick us out right away.” He runs his dirty fingers down the door. “We should try and sneak past. We don't have too much ammo.”

Butch agrees.

They enter into one of the big department stores, the smell of rotting, moldy fabric overwhelming. Butch pulls his bandana over his nose and mouth, it does little to help.

Moving towards the light, Butch can hear people speaking. Scientists, discussing supply needs. 

“The Survivor has been quiet for months. We could go back to the Institute. Strip what we need.”

“That's impossible,” a second replies. “How would we even get inside?”

“How did the Survivor get so many Wasters in?”

Saying nothing, Kaspar tugs at Butch. They can get around the scientists, if they stick close to the wall, hiding in racks they haven't cleared yet, then cutting through rows of small appliances.

Butch gets a glimpse of the scientists, as he's sneaking past the blender display. They have refrigerators set up for sample storage, hot plates for heating mixtures, and three cylinders, big enough to hold full grown men.

Synths. Butch realizes. The chambers could fit synths.

He takes the time for a second look, though Kaspar is already pulling at his sleeve. There are metal skeletons inside two of the tubes, nascent flesh is already starting to cling to the bones, solidifying around the frame. It's a meat torso under glass, garbled and grotesque. Butch bites back his bile, turning to follow after Kaspar.

Once out of the department store, Butch realizes how hard it is going to be to hide. The arcade is open, wide, with pillars and potted plants and shit, sure, but little that could be considered real cover.

They bypass the escalator, way too exposed, and look for another way up. Obviously they can't use the elevator. And the stairs aren't much better. “We’re going to be seen,” Butch admits, leaning back against a support pillar. The Gallery isn't heavily populated, but there are enough people walking around, a mix of soldiers and scientists, dressed like Wasters, but with different mannerisms. The soldiers stand up straighter, hands close to their sides. The scientists are looser, but nervous. Most of them were born below ground. Butch was the same way when he first came to the surface.

Kaspar rummages around in his pack, “We get one chance at this,” he pulls out a Stealthboy. But there are two of them. “Make sure you hold on tight, wrap your arms around my waist.”

“Fucking hell.” This never works particularly well, trying to cram a second person into the stealth field. The Stealthboys weren't actually designed to work this way, the chemical dose works only on the person who applies the syringe. But it's possible to sneak a second body through, as long as they stick tight to the cloaked body.

Kaspar stands up straight, strapping the Pipboy on. Butch wraps his arms around his waist, pulling his chest flush to Kaspar’s back.

Kaspar hisses as the needle breaks skin, pumping him full of the cloaking solution. It's a strange sensation, watching your body disappear, watching another body disappear while still holding on to something solid.

It takes them a moment to find their feet, stepping together so they can move quickly enough to get up the stairs without arousing attention, but also before the Stealthboy wears off. 

Kaspar is boiling hot all over. Whether it's because of the Stealthboy or whatever chem cocktail he downed this morning or he just runs warm, Butch has got no fucking idea. But it's murderous being pressed up against him, trying to coordinate their movements so they don't fall over.

They make it upstairs, stealth field still intact. But they've still got to find Tate. Butch scans the arcade. Most of the storefronts are boarded up or dark. But that don't mean Tate isn't inside one of those. Fuck.

But Kaspar seems to know where to go. Laying his hands over Butch’s across his stomach, he signals to keep close. They've still got juice left on the Stealthboy. They head towards one of the lit shopfronts, all glass on the outside.

The display window is cut up into four cells. Two of them look unused. One is empty, but looks like maybe someone lives there. And the third has got a body balled up on the cot.

Butch breaks off from Kaspar, tapping at the glass. He doesn't want to get his hopes up, but…”

A dark head of hair rises out of the dingy sheets, and yeah, that's Tate, blinking his eyes back open. 

“Thank fuck,” Butch tries the door, but it's locked. Probably both ways, cause it's not like they could keep Tate here any way other than force. “How do we get you out?”

Tate comes up to the glass, pressing his hand flat against the panel. “Just wait,” Tate mumbles. “Hide behind some shit. They took me out yesterday, paraded me around. I bet they do it again. Then we just fuck them up.”

“This would really be easier if you stopped losing your arm.”

“Actually,” Tate yawns, “I'm pretty sure my room is bugged. So, I mean, we could have people busting in here any second now. I'd get ready.”

Butch scowls, “Thanks for the warning, Nosebleed,” he reaches for his plasma pistol. 

“Also,” Tate turns away, looking for his shirt, “Jack’s here. So if things go to shit. Don't be surprised.”

“Our side?” Butch asks. 

He can hear the boots now, running up the stairs. Kaspar fumbles with his gun.

“Her own. But she ain't against us.”

That's as good as they're gonna get.


	10. Pass the Baton Before it Burns the Other Hand

Tate sits on the edge of the cot, trying to keep his breathing even. Butch and Kaspar are somewhere out of his line of sight. Two Lazarus guards stop in front of Tate’s cell.

They don't say a word to him, moving on once they see that he's alone, seated meekly with his hand in his lap. Neither of them are looking in the right direction, when Butch lunges out at one.

Butch tackles the guard low and hard, bringing him straight to the tiled floor. Ripping off the guard’s helmet, Butch uses it to bash his face in, until blood smears across the ground.

The second guard has his weapon raised, but Kaspar lands a shot in the center of his chest before she can fire. That's loud. Too loud, it will alert the other guards. Butch scrambles to his feet, the guard’s keycard in his hand.

Shoving the card against the lock, they have to wait five seconds for the maglock to disengage. There's nothing in the room that Tate needs, so he bolts out as soon as the door slides open. 

“Dr. Li’s terminal,” Tate realizes, “we need to take her data.”

Butch hesitates, “Wait, how do I know that name? No fucking way,” realization spreads across his face, leaving Butch so dumbstruck looking, Tate just wants to kiss him hard. “From Project Purity?”

“Yeah,” Tate runs to the next cell, finding the door unlocked. “We’re not the only ones who don't die easy.” He boots up her terminal, “we don't have much time.”

“What is she working on?” Butch gets his cable from his pack, plugging his Pipboy in to transfer the files.

“No fucking clue, but they went through the trouble of picking her up. So I don't want to leave her shit here.”

The terminal counts down. Sixty seconds to complete transfer.

Kaspar hovers by the door, keeping his pistol drawn. Whatever guards they send next are going to be more heavily armed. They know that hell has broken loose.

“We need my arm and Pipboy too,” Tate says, as if Butch could forget.

Twenty-seven seconds left. “I swear to fucking hell, Tate. If you lose them one more time.”

“Like I plan this!” Tate yells.

Kaspar opens fire, sending off two shots before trying to duck for cover. It's pointless though, with the glass walls. Luckily the guard who fires back has shitty aim. It shatters the glass on the front Dr. Li’s cell. But the three of them are unharmed.

Tate grabs Butch’s plasma pistol from his waistband. He's going to be utter shit with it, but Butch is still attached to the terminal. Tate steps in front of Kaspar, letting off four rounds in the general vicinity of the guards. He knows fucking well none of them are bound to hit, but it at least scares the shit out of the guards, forcing them to bolt for cover.

Butch pulls out the cable from the terminal, grabbing his pistol from Tate. “Rounds are fucking expensive,” he hisses.

Tate counters, “I know, I'm the fucker who pays for them.”

The guards are on the move again. They've got to get to cover. Kaspar runs first, his self preservation kicking in, ducking to hide behind a concrete planter that's almost three feet tall.

Tate's worthless if he's not up close. Skimming his hand down Butch’s arm, he says, “Cover me, love,” and starts running.

If Butch objects, he's got no time to complain, because Tate is already off and running, zig-zagging towards the guards so they can't get a good aim on him. But Butch knows how to read Tate’s body, the slant of his hips, how he shifts his weight. Works great in sex, but even better here, slotting plasma strikes through the gaps in Tate’s mad dash.

Tate ducks low, crashing his shoulder into a guard with his assault rifle drawn. The guard pulls the trigger as goes crashing down, shooting up into the skylight. 

Fuck.

Tate had this great plan of bashing the guy’s face in. But the ceiling above them groans and cracks. It's more than fifteen feet between them on the ground and the skylight. When the glass comes crashing down, the velocity will kill them both.

Tate scrambles up, not even waiting to land a blow to the fucker’s face. He just has to get out from under the splintered glass.

The guard doesn't realize. He's trying to get up too, disoriented and sore. But he doesn't understand.

It's a crash of lightning, rather than a trickle of rain, as the skylight comes down, ripping the guard to shreds.

The sight of it is enough to make another guard drop their gun, heaving as their stomach protests the sight. Yeah, it's pretty fucking gruesome. But Tate has had to fight through worse.

“OH FUCKING GOD FUCK,” Kaspar shrieks. So maybe he isn't used to it either.

With the guards at least distracted, Tate runs for Butch. He's got a pretty good idea where his arm and Pipboy are. Grabbing Butch by the hand, he drags him towards the opposite escalator.

There are another three soldiers rushing up the escalator, but Tate makes one as Jackson right away. “Keep running,” he hisses back at Butch. 

Just as one woman is about to fire, Jackson butts her in the back of the head with her rifle, taking her to the floor. The man next to Jackson looks shocked, but doesn't retaliate. Must be one of hers.

“I had this situation under control, you know,” Jackson complains, but she's smiling.

Butch breaks into a smile, “Jack, long time no see?”

“She wants to be called ‘the Carpenter’ now,” Tate mocks.

“We’re all gonna be called dead if we don't start moving,” Kaspar whines.

Tate turns back to Jackson, “Think Martha still has my Pipboy?”

“If not her, one of her scientists, yeah.”

“Okay, that's where we’re headed,” Tate decides, “what about you?”

“If I'm going to do this, I have to,” Jackson hesitates, “Martha and Mary have to go.”

Jackson is smart, dangerously so. But she's not as cutthroat as she acts. She doesn't want to do this. But she thinks that she has to.

The Gallery is in chaos, those loyal to Jackson fighting off the other soldiers and scientists who remain true believers in this better world. A world that never was. That's what all these fucking playmakers have in common. They think that the past was something other than awful. Tate's never had any delusions. Or, at minimum, he hasn't cared.

They cut their way towards the Anchor department store, Jackson and Butch keeping most everyone off of them. A bullet barely grazes Kaspar’s arm and he’s bawling like a baby. What a fucking waste.

Martha’s office is towards the back of the Anchor, past the makeshift laboratories. Most of the scientists are holding off from the fighting, trying to hide under their desks, make themselves small. Fuck em. If Tate wasn't in a fucking hurry, he might slaughter them himself. They're just going to end up under the thumb of someone else. Too weak willed to make decisions for themselves.

“Tate!” It's Dr. Li. She's not cowering, but she is staring at the three large containment tubes. Two of them have disgusting, half-formed men inside. Fuck. The synth project.

Tate can't help himself, he yells, “Is this what the fuck you've been working on?”

She snaps back, “No. But we have to destroy these before we-” she halts suddenly, staring at Kaspar. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, oh shit!” Kaspar turns to run.

“Wait, what?” Tate has no idea what's going on. Kaspar though, has bolted.

“That’s Martha’s son.”

Butch groans, “Fuck.”

“Forget him,” Dr. Li snaps. “We have to flush the synths. We can't let any of this technology remain.”

Tate doesn't have the patience for this. And he's only got one arm so his smashing abilities are seriously hindered at the moment. But Butch steps in, going for the terminal. “A fail safe or something?” he asks, fingers flying over keys.

Dr. Li stares at him, “I guess you learned something in the last ten years.”

“Just cause I didn't roll over like a good dog when the Brotherhood was asking us to make ourselves useful don't mean I don't know shit,” Butch snarls.

There are more boots on the ground. Jackson grabs her follower, darting to head them off while Butch works.

“There!” Butch exclaims as the tubes start flushing, all the water running out. 

Dr. Li seems satisfied enough. Tate says nothing about her files on Butch’s Pipboy.

“Get out of here,” Tate seethes, “Working with the Carpenter or not, I don't wanna see you,” Tate threatens. 

“I, for one, have other places to be.” Before she goes, she slides a combination safe open. Inside is Tate’s arm. She doesn't wait for thanks before breezing out.

Butch and Tate watch as the synthetic flesh on the metal skeletons shrivels, once exposed to air. Maybe they should chop up the bodies too. 

But when the door swings open, Butch reaches inside to touch the flesh, “It's hard, like concrete. Fucking weird.”

Tate pops his arm back into the socket, flexing his fingers to make sure they all respond. Nothing seems to be amiss.

Jackson comes back in, without her companion, “Took a hit, he's dosed. Let's move,” she leads the way towards the back offices.

Tate's all on edge when they get there, expecting more security than he sees. Maybe Jackson’s people drew them out? Impossible to tell. 

Jackson pounds on the door with a closed fist, “I know you're in there, Martha, your time is up.”

It's not Martha who opens the door, but Mary, still dressed all in black. Next to Tate, Butch gasps, letting out a curse, “Fuck you!”

Mary looks unsurprised as Butch pulls his plasma pistol. Before he can fire, she's in motion, moving to slice at Butch with the knife in her left hand.

Tate sees it all in slow motion, cutting her off before she makes contact. She's not expecting Tate to be so fast, so alert. But Tate takes her to the floor.

And fucking hell is she strong. She's not big, Tate is certainly bulkier while she's lean. But she pushes back with strength Tate doesn't expect, flipping their positions with practiced grace and putting Tate to the floor.

Jackson gets behind her, putting her pistol to the back of Mary’s head, “I'm here to kill you anyway,” Jackson says.

Mary calls her bluff, “Do it,” she snarls.

“She tried to kill our friend,” Butch says, “she slit his throat. If you don't do it. I will.”

Looking up, Tate watches Jackson pull the trigger. He knows she's not the first person Jackson has killed. Hell, that Knight, back at Starfield, who chased them through the woods. Jackson put a bullet through his skull so cleanly, Tate questions if he was her first.

Mary collapses in a heap on top of Tate, blood running from the back of her skull, soaking Tate’s shirt. Tate pushes her body off, trying not to think so hard. This is how the Wasteland works. Tate's known this since he was nineteen. Nothing has changed.

“My Pipboy,” they can't afford to get distracted.

Jackson leads, Butch on her heels, then Tate. He can feel the blood starting to crust over his skin, breaking up when he puffs up his cheeks. Fuck. He rubs at his face with the back of his hand.

Martha is inside, sitting at her desk, hands folded in front of her. She’s proud, defiant, until the end. She must know this is her end.

“Caroline,” she soothes, “I should have known, the moment you arrived.”

“Don't play dumb,” Jackson holds her pistol steady, “you knew all along who I was. You wanted this.”

“Child,” she tilts her head, “knowing who you were and what you wanted are two separate things entirely. All of this,” Martha gestures, “you may think it's your birthright. So, maybe, yes, you wished to overthrow my position here. Well, then,” she folds her hands again, “What are your demands? We can come to an agreement, regarding the future of Lazarus.”

“I shot Mary,” Jackson sneers, “I'll shoot you too.”

“But you need me, you know you need me. That's why you haven't killed me yet. Mary was expendable. I am not.”

“You are!” Jackson insists, “you are so, so wrong. I didn't come here to take Lazarus, I came to destroy it.”

Martha laughs, covering her mouth out of politeness. “That's ridiculous. You're here, with the Lone Wanderer. Are you saying this wasn't your plan all along? Do you think we’re cut off from transmissions from Starfield? They don't even know the Citadel fell.”

Tate tenses. He's been worried since day one that Jackson has been playing them. That she's a better manipulator than any of them could have imagined, hidden under smiles and a brilliant mind. 

“Ma,” Kaspar calls from the door. Tate had assumed he booked the fuck out of the Gallery, once his secret was revealed. “We can't do this. You can't do this.”

“Kaspar,” her voice goes soft, “you know the directive. We need those G.E.C.K.s. We need to nurture the potential of this world. Rebirth.”

Kaspar shakes his head. “I can't...I won't...ma. You know, you know it will kill me too?”

“Don't be silly,” she says. But Tate watches as her hands tense. She's lying, she knows.

Kaspar draws his gun, “Dr. Li, she showed me the reports. I don't stand a chance….all these people. Not ghouls, not mutants, people ma. They're all going to die.”

“Kaspar, are you going to believe Dr. Li over me? She wanted to turn you against me from the start.”

“Why did you even adopt me?” Kaspar’s shaking now.

It's enviable. Tate knows from this moment that it's inevitable. He sees the glassiness in Kaspar’s eyes, the way his hand tightens around his pistol grip. Jackson isn't going to have to kill Martha. Kaspar’s going to fuck up. Doing it himself.

“Did you save me, just to watch me die?”

“Kaspar…”

She doesn't get to finish her sentence, the bullet cutting her off.

Tate gets his Pipboy out of her desk drawer.

\--

Jackson tells them there's someplace she needs to go, before they leave the city. Tate wants to stick with her. She doesn't object.

The four of them, Jackson, Tate, Butch, and Kaspar, cut their way through downtown Philadelphia. Jackson promises where they're going isn't far. It ends up just being about ten minutes down Market Street, a straight shot they can't fuck up.

They head towards the Liberty Bell. Tate has seen pictures of it, in their Vault textbooks years ago. But now the glass shell is broken, spikes sticking up at odd angles like a menace. 

The giant brass bell inside is nearly black with age, but still intact. A testament to a time long gone, a country dead for two hundred years. Or at least, it should have been. But people keep trying to pull its remains from the ashes. This is why they keep fucking up.

Jackson kicks at the glass with her boot, but it's that hardened type that doesn't budge easy. Which makes Tate wonder how it got so smashed up in the first place. Admitting defeat, she tries to climb her way in without stabbing herself. It takes some contorting, but she makes it. 

Crouching down, she gets under the bell itself, sticking her hand inside and fishing around. She comes out with a parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. It's remarkably ordinary.

She doesn't open the package until she's back out. Sitting on the ground, she starts to work the knot open. Tate sits across from her.

Jackson lights a cigarette before she actually parts the paper. Butch lights one too, but doesn't sit. He hands off a cigarette to Kaspar, who still can't stop shaking. Tate figures he’ll forgive that. For now. He did end up killing his mom. In a more abstract way, Tate has done the same.

Inside the package isn't much of anything. A sheet of paper, a storage drive. Jackson reads over the paper, leaving the drive in the wrapping paper.

“This is it, you know?”

Tate doesn't know.

“Arthur Maxson and Elder Lyons brought this package with them when they traveled East.” She hands Tate the paper. It's a list of names, followed by numbers, years. They start in 2047. And end in 2265. With Caroline. “I was just a kid. So was Arthur, when they sent him away.”

“What is it?” Tate asks, handing the paper back.

She holds up the hard drive, “Records, of everyone in that original contingent of the Brotherhood of Steel, what they did before the bombs fell, how they behaved under Roger Maxson’s command. Who they married, their kids, their kids kids. It traces all our genealogies. The paper, that's just something Arthur and I did as kids. Writing out our own histories. Side by side. But this,” she gestures to the disk again. “This proves who I am, now that the Maxson line is extinct.”

“What are you going to do with it,” Tate bristles. He's never liked talk of bloodlines. Even when staring him right in the face. 

She ignores the question, “If I had a kid, I could add to the list.”

Taking out her lighter, she burns the paper first, watching it go up in ash. She's careful not to burn her fingers. 

There's still the matter of the disk. “This is how I get my freedom,” she stands up, “This is how we kill the Brotherhood.”

She has nothing to gain from this. Except that better world she keeps talking about. The one that doesn't look towards the past.

Throwing the disk onto the concrete isn't enough to break it beyond repair. But it's a start, smashing out into a handful of pieces. She grabs the baseball bat she's made Kaspar carry this far, using it to beat the shit out of the disk. Once it's in pieces, she starts taking them to the lighter, melting away the evidence of who she is. The smoke is noxious. They all start coughing.

“So what is it,” Tate asks, “you wanna lead or not?” Because he can't say he really has a handle on what Jackson wants. 

“Sure, I'll lead. But not because my mom fucked my dad, you know? Not because of my blood, leading back hundreds of years to people who were probably shit anyway.”

“You should change your name,” Tate suggests. Though he's never been able to fully let his go.

Caroline laughs, “Maybe I'll just be the Carpenter for awhile? See how it takes? Because, fuck me, that means I could be anyone, right? If I'm just a title.”

Though Tate smiles, he doesn't have the heart to tell her what's in store for her, being a title, even if it's one of your own choosing, fucking sucks. “Okay, whatever you fucking say, Carpenter.”

She's happy, but she schools her face again. “I'm still worried about those G.E.C.K.s.”

“Why?”

“We should dismantle them. They've never brought us any good. Well,” she admits, “they brought clean water to the Capital. But as long as they're out there, people will want to get their hands on them.”

“We have two of them,” Tate admits.

“But not all...that's...what I want to spend my time doing. At least for now. Dismantling the G.E.C.K.s. We don't need them, I don't think. We’re doing pretty fucking well without them.”

Tate shakes his head, “You talk a good game now, Carpenter. But what happens when you think you know better than everyone else, how this world should be run?”

“Dunno,” she admits, “how did it feel when you ran the world?” It's mostly a joke.

“Awful,” Tate doesn't hesitate.

She frowns, “Good. I have a lot to look forward to, then.”

“Don't fuck up,” Tate warns. “I'm tired of cleaning up after other people’s shit.” But he doesn't really think she’s going to ruin everything. She's too smart and too scared. “But, I mean, it's gonna happen, right?”

“Me fucking up?”

“Yeah,” Tate clarifies. “The point is, know it, right? Know you're making the mistake. And maybe you keep fucking up. Just don't pretend like you've got this shit figured out.”

“That how you avoid letting it all go to your head?” she’s teasing now.

“Nah, but. We're out of fucking options.” Tate shoves his hands in his pockets, kicking at what's left of the drive. Butch comes up behind him, draping his arm over Tate’s shoulder, pulling him back against his chest.

“We need to get to Kinwood,” Butch says.

“Always fucking something,” Tate groans, turning in the closing circle of his husband’s arms, letting his head fall against Butch’s chest.


	11. One Summer Turns into Ten Summers

Butch ain’t about to smoke inside of Amata and Freddie’s house. Despite all appearances, he was sort of raised something akin to proper. Maybe, when he was younger, he fought against politeness, thinking that it made him weak. Now, he’s old enough to figure it only matters a little what people think. You’re either weak, or you ain’t, and appearances don’t have much to do with it. 

Sitting out on the front step, just really two stacked slabs of broken concrete, Butch lights his cigarette, watching the sun start to set. Tate is inside, helping Freddie re-heat food. They’ve got a pretty full house for now, though Butch and Tate will sleep down at the bar. Tate already booked the room. Jack is going to spend the night on the Almadovar-Gomez’ couch. Kaspar has fucked right off. Butch is only slightly worried about him. It ain’t like Butch is responsible.

Behind him, the door opens. Butch doesn’t bother looking back to see who it is, just focusing on his cigarette. He’ll come inside when he’s good and fucking ready.

Next to him, Clara plops herself down. Shit.

Her black hair is tied up tight in a voluminous ponytail. Must be a hell of a thing to brush. She’s got Freddie’s jacket on, like always, big and baggy over her adolescent frame. She doesn’t look at Butch at first, staring out into Kinwood square. They people watch for awhile, side by side.

“I know who you are,” Clara blurts out.

Butch sort of smiles, “Of course you do. You ain’t stupid,” his heart is pounding in his chest. Because Clara is braver than any of them. She’s started what they’ve all been putting off for fucking ages. 

“In the Vault I...your ma. She was real fucked up,” she tucks her face into her folded arms. “She didn’t live long or anything. I was like, four, when she died.”

Butch hasn’t thought about that ever. The fact his ma is gone now. It always seemed like something he could put off. Like it wouldn’t have a bearing on his life now. Because she’s been so far away for so long. But it still aches, knowing that she’s done. 

“But I remember, sorta, how should would look at me. And I didn’t know why. I just thought she was fucked up and weird. And drunk. Didn’t know until later.” Clara frowns, “We don’t look like her.”

“Nah,” Butch snuffs out his filter on the underside of his boot, then lights another cigarette. “We don’t.”

“My ma never knew about this. But I saw a picture of you, before we left the Vault. She kept it in a box under their bed. Just like, I don’t know, shit from before she became Overseer,” she tugs at the collar of her jacket. “There was this picture of her and Tate. And a picture of you and Tate. But none of her and you. But, I saw that picture. And I knew.”

“Because you’re not an idiot,” Butch sighs. 

“I didn’t want to believe it...she talked about you two, sometimes. Her friends who had left. She missed you both, I think. Fuck it,” she scuffs her boots in the dirt. “Why the fuck did you leave us?” she bites.

Butch leans back, letting his elbows rest against the higher step. The back of his head brushes against the house when he does it. “I was born in December, and my father was gone by February. But no one told me either. No one told me shit.” He’s never talked about this with anyone, not even Tate. How he found the files matched up dates and names. 

Clara actually watches him while he talks, her eyes narrowed and appraising. 

“I went my whole fucking childhood...I don’t know. We were told you’re born in the Vault, you die in the Vault. Your mom’s dad...he,” there’s no point rehashing it. “They let me think, that my father abandoned me or some shit. Like I never had a father. But it’s the Vault, right? People just don’t vanish. So I spent years, fucking years, looking at every man who was old enough. Trying to fucking...see myself in any of them. I...you know. Well I guess you don’t,” Butch laughs thinly, “Tate looks just like his father did. He hated it. But I was so fucking jealous. Because he knew, there was no doubt.”

“You did the same thing to me,” she snarls.

“Yeah, I did. I guess I didn’t know. Thought, I don’t know, you’d look like Amata. That it would be easy. But...my dad didn’t abandon me. He went out on a mission, they took volunteers to see what the Wasteland was like, if we should open the Vault. He died out there. I...I think he meant to come back. But my mom was too fucked up about it. The Overseer told her to shut her mouth.”

“You weren’t going to come back for me, though.”

Butch won’t lie to her, “Nah, I wasn’t. But I thought about you all the time. That doesn’t make it right. But I missed you, even though I never knew you.”

She sticks her chin back into her hands, “Are you staying now?”

Butch’s chest tightens, “I don’t think so.”

“I’m glad,” she says. Butch doesn’t know how to take that. “But I’m also glad I met you. Cause like...I don’t know. It’s weird. I looked too, you know? In the Vault, but out of it too. And I never saw anyone.”

Butch smiles, “You’re going to do alright. I’ve seen...a lot of shitty fathers, but Freddie? He ain’t one of them.” Freddie is pretty fucking remarkable. But Butch can’t say that to his face. It’s too sappy. 

“I’m going to be great,” Clara exclaims. “And one day, you’ll see. I’ll be as important to this Wasteland as you are. You and Tate, and my mom and dad. I’m gonna blow everything you guys have done out of the water,” she sticks her chin up definitely. 

Laughing, Butch tells her, “I hope not,” because what’s the point of all the shit they’ve done, if Clara has to retrace their footsteps in the sand?

\--

In the morning, they start breaking up the kits.

Kaspar re-materializes, seemingly out of nowhere. There are dark purple circles around his eyes and he’s high as shit. All of them know. No one says anything. 

Amata opens one kit; Tate opens the other. There are seven distinct components in each case.

Jack goes to work, splitting up the contents. She puts everything into matching pairs. Butch isn’t really sure what anything in there is supposed to do. Well, the G.E.C.K.s were supposed to help the Vaulties rebuild the world. The saviors of humanity, buried underground to bloom in the new world. But things didn’t work out that way.

Once all eight pairs are laid out, Tate, Amata, and Jack figure out how to split them up. Amata takes three pairs, Jack and Tate each take two.

“Where are you gonna go?” Tate asks Jack.

“West, to Ohio. Everything I saw, Brotherhood tried to move in, found it too dangerous to hold, or even scav. But that was years ago. When Lyons first came East. But they mapped out the Vaults they knew. Good a place as any to start looking.”

Tate shakes her hand. Butch ain’t that formal, wrapping her in a hug before she goes. Kaspar trots along after her. Their four pieces of the G.E.C.K.s are stuffed into one sliver case. She makes Kaspar carry it. Butch hopes they made the right decision here. That she’s true to her word, yeah, but that the Wasteland doesn’t change her, make her want the power she was always promised. 

“What about you, Tate, Butch?” Amata asks, putting her six pieces into another case. 

Butch answers, before Tate has a chance, “We’re going to see the sea. After that, who knows?”

Amata smiles, clicking the latches on her case into place.

\--

Before they leave, Butch checks an old, paper map, comparing land masses to what his Pipboy can detect of the road ahead of them.

“We should just walk in that direction,” Tate scoffs, sticking his hands into his pockets. He's got sunglasses perched on top of his head, in case the cloud cover breaks while they're enroute. 

The trip will take them three days, maybe more, depending on the roads, and whatever else tries to fucking stop them. There's the whole of New Jersey between them and the ocean. That ain't so bad, though.

Butch sets the marker, letting the Pipboy software plan a route. They're bound to get off track, but at least that gives them a place to start.

“Okay, okay,” Butch concedes, not even bothering to fold the map back up. He just sort of bends it, leaving it on the nightstand of their rented room. “Let's go.” Throwing his arm over Tate’s shoulders, Butch is ready for the Atlantic.

\--

The bridge between the mainland and the island is mostly collapsed, sinking into the bay. Winter winds whip off the water, stinging Butch’s face with spray and salt. They have to keep close to the railing to avoid falling into the bay. It's not particularly turbulent, but Butch is sure the water is cold. Tate hops up onto the metal railing, keeping his balance perfectly as he walks the line.

The narrow causeway is the only way on or off the island. Butch has no idea if there is a settlement here or not? Hasn't heard much about it, and they didn't stop in transit to ask. He just remembers seeing it on a map of the East Coast, a sliver of an island, long and narrow, like you could see the ocean from the bay side.

Once ashore Butch doesn't see shit. Well, he sees summer homes and sturdy ferns, sand and boarded up shop fronts. But he doesn't see any people, any irradiated monstrosities.

On the day the bombs fell, there must have been people here? There's no fucking way they made it to the mainland. Not with the single bridge. Maybe there's a vault. Like, the houses aren't huge, but they're nice. Built with that kind of idyllic eye that Butch and Tate both hate. So the people here had money. Vacation homes away from their jobs in Philadelphia, New York, where the fuck ever.

“It's so quiet,” Tate observes. 

“Yeah.”

And it's true, the island is flat. When the view isn't obstructed by houses, they can see clear to the other side of the island.

They walk together, holding hands though the weather is cold. Maybe because the weather is cold. They wander the empty streets. It's just like anywhere else in the Wasteland, picked over, run down, fading paint, and broken windows, but it's empty. The streets are wide and the houses small. Everything stays quiet.

Once they reach the seaside, Tate sits down in the sand, looking out on the water. When they were young, they exchanged their rings further down the coast. But it's the same vast, consuming ocean.

Butch sits next to him, not worrying about how the sand clings to his armor, gets into his boots. They watch as the waves get closer, the tide coming in.

They've been together a long time. Especially considering…

Butch didn't think he could have this. When he was sixteen and wanted Tate so desperately, he didn't know what to do other than be so fucking angry at nebulous creatures who died hundreds of years ago. Butch didn't think he could have this.

Tate didn't think so either. But here they fucking are.

They wait until the sun sets to get ready to leave the beach. By then they're freezing, toes cold in their boots.

The briefcase they stuck the G.E.C.K. pieces into is weighted down with iron fillings they found along the road. Tate gunked up the latches with superglue. Taking the case by the handle, Tate flings it into the sea. The salt will eat it, and the waves.

None of the houses look any better or worse than the others, so they just pick one with a roof and go inside. The door works too.

There's a tan couch with throw pillows that have embroidered mallard ducks on them. Faded with age. And on one window sill is a sculpted seagull, beak held high.

With their Pipboy lights on, they wander the house. It's small, two little bedrooms, a den. There are metal crab traps in the kitchen and Butch laughs himself sick, because Mirelurks sure have come a long way.

Tate pulls a bunch of linens from the hall closet. They probably started out starch white, but they've yellowed to antiqued ivory. 

The bed frame is broken and the mattress gone, so they nest the blankets on the floor, pulling down the comforter over top of them, once they're curled into the pile of linens. Butch hides his head under the blanket, pulling Tate under with him.

They kiss and kiss, tangling their limbs together so they can feel each other's hearts beating through their ribcages. Tate’s runs faster than Butch’s. When Tate grabs at Butch’s hair, he doesn't have the voice to stop him, too wrapped up in Tate’s wet mouth, trying to suck out all his breath.

It grows hot and humid under the covers, Tate grabbing hold of Butch’s cock and stroking until he's hard, hissing at the contact.

They end up curling back to chest, Tate rolling his hips in tortuous waves, fucking into Butch with a calm evenness, utterly betrayed by how hard he's breathing into Butch’s neck. He digs his nails into Butch’s chest, grabbing and clawing as he tries to do good. Tries to make Butch come on his cock. Butch puts his hand over Tate’s tense one. His other hand, he keeps wrapped around his cock.

Tate bites into Butch’s shoulder when he comes, whimpering against already tortured skin. Butch can feel the brushes blooming, scraped raw by Tate’s teeth.

Butch doesn't take much longer to come, Tate still sheathed inside him, flagging fast. Tate's saying something, indistinct, then breaking through the foam in Butch’s head. “Don't leave.”

Like that will ever fucking happen.

\--

Butch wakes up alone. The sun bright and his eyes cloudy. He rubs at them, breaking up the film. It's still fucking cold.

He can hear Tate in the kitchen, the clink of mass produced ceramics, tapping against each other as Tate rearranges shit.

Butch keeps the comforter wrapped around his shoulders as he climbs to his feet, stumbling into the noise. He finds Tate hunched over the sink, dressed in jeans and a sweater that is definitely from Butch’s bag. 

Butch asks, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Tate nods towards the plaque, mounted just over the double barrel sink.

“I am the alpha and omega…” Butch can't bear to read the rest. But he remembers the verse. That Tate’s dad had it fucking framed in their suite.

Tate shakes his head, looking down the drain, “What are the fucking odds?”

Butch wants to smash the fucking thing into a thousand brittle shards. If only because it might give Tate some relief. 

“It's such a fucking lie too,” Tate spits, “there's no beginning, no end. It just,” Tate pushes himself away from the countertop. “It keeps fucking going. That's it. It's not complicated.”

The plaque turns out to be wood, so they burn it in the gravel driveway, watching the ash smolder and blow away in the winter wind. What's left, Tate scatters with his boot. “Come on, I think the house next door has wooden planks. We should fix the hole in the living room first. Check for a mattress too.” As Tate walks towards the property line, he picks up the overturned bird bath, standing it up straight.

They end up scrubbing everything down before they start building, with cleaning supplies they find under the kitchen sink. They find another carved wooden duck in there too. Butch puts it next to the seagull.

By the time they're done, raking away dust and debris, the whole place smells of synthetic lemon, clinging to their hands and in their nostrils.

“This might not last forever, you know?” Tate sits crosslegged in the living room, another blanket they found, checkered fleece, draped over his legs. When they went to Carmel, they thought that would be forever.

Butch wonders what happened to all those records that the NCR keep on everyone? If they're listed as ‘missing’ or ‘deceased,’ and if a tax collector has tried to rip their door down yet? It's been just over a year since they left.

“Yeah but, we’re forever, or like, at least as long as we can manage, right?”

Tate laughs, “I'm almost convinced you're telling the truth,” his eyes are shining.

Later, when Butch is trying to patch a generator they found into the house’s electrics, his Pipboy brightens.

130758 > 271257: Butch, come inside.  
130758 > 271257: It’s fucking cold.  
130758 > 271257: I love you.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated. 
> 
> This story will update about once a week. 
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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